


The River Runs Red

by Xyriath



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Cultural Degradation, Discussion of Abortion, Edward Elric/King Bradley, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Marriage, Gaslighting, Implied Mpreg, M/M, More warnings will be added as the story progresses., Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Xerxes | Cselkcess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conquering Amestrian army from the west takes the country of Xerxes in a single night, leaving its princes alive, with a caveat: the eldest is to marry Amestris's sovereign, to broker a deal for a merger of the two countries, both ruling equally, in an attempt to restore peace after the corruption of Xerxes's last ruler.</p><p>Ed knows precisely how much horse shit that is, and he'll be damned if he surrenders with his country.</p><p>A false truth, spread to sway a people.  A bastard-general heir of Amestris, its most dangerous force to be reckoned with.  A horde of powerful nobility, each with their own plots to help or hinder the fledgeling nation.  A conspiracy spanning countries, fated to be either doomed to fail or the last hope of a sovereign people.</p><p>The first battle, one of weapons and armies and first blood, has already been lost.  But the second, one of deception and alliances and false faces, is only beginning.  And Ed intends for the last blood to be his.</p><p>(Or, a pretentiously long AU of intrigue and royalty.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I start this massive undertaking, I want to shout out a giant "Thank you" to my best friend and partner in crime, GrandAdmiral. This fic started as a RoyEd roleplay with her and evolved into something bigger and better than I could have ever imagined. Without her, this fic (and an overwhelming amount of others) would never have even been started. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR SUPPORT. <3
> 
> Another edit, 1/1/18: Still planning on coming back to this someday. Suffering some severe creative burnout + RL issues atm so it hasn't really been in the cards but I have the entire thing plotted and outlined I swear.

The scene that fills the room, it can’t be real.

Screams.  Death rattles.  The clang of metal.  The sharp, coppery smell that envelops him, nearly suffocating in its omnipresence.  His right arm dangles; limp, sliced, useless.

Edris knows all of this, in theory.  Knows that the arm is damaged in a way that will never be fully healed.  Knows that the faces of those who raised him, trained him, served him supper, are on the heaps of bodies piled on the floor, bodies mangled beyond saving.  Knows that he has very nearly become one of those bodies, kneeling frozen on that very floor, hunched over, swords pressing into his back, clutching his arm and staring up at the form before him in horror.

But the only thing he can hear—see—is the slow, red drip, drip, drip from the point of the sword that the King of Amestris has just pulled from his father’s body.

He should—he should stand, he should fight, he should reach for the dagger he still has tucked in his belt and cut the bastard’s heart out, damn the consequences, but—

_Drip, drip, drip._

He is vaguely certain that there is more happening around him, noises of orders being shouted, cheers ringing through his father’s throne room, but—

_Drip, drip, drip._

He finally manages to jerk his gaze away, and immediately wishes that he hadn’t.  His father’s face lies right in his line of sight, expression stricken, and yet—empty.  The blood that had sprayed from the wound in his chest has stopped its movement and now pools around him, its diameter now so wide that it nearly reaches Edris’s knees, which are still inexplicably frozen to the floor.

The muffled noises resolve into individual words, then sounds, then sentences.  As they begin to filter through Edris’s ears into his brain, comprehension slowly forming, Ed lifts his eyes to the large man standing behind his father’s body, dripping sword raised in one hand, blood— _his father’s blood_ —sprayed across his torso, his arm, his face…

Ed doesn’t need to see the patch over the left eye to know exactly who this is.

“…so-called _allies_ conspired against us, we have crushed their ambitions, and Amestris once again rests safe!”  King Bradley of Amestris cries, cold triumph glittering in his remaining eye.  “And yet, from this tragedy, a new day will dawn, a new alliance form…”

Ed tries to shove away the knowledge that he is going to die in a few moments.  His gaze flicks away from Bradley, to the man beside him, whose identity Ed also knows: Bradley’s bastard son, his best general, and heir.  His black eyes are cold, his gloved hands bloody— _also my father’s_ —and gesturing as he barks orders.  Ed’s eyes dart in the direction the man is pointing, to a group of soldiers who are releasing a sobbing maid with disappointed expressions, then sweep the room before him.

He wishes immediately that he hadn’t.

All of these people, all of these Xerxesians, dead, killed, protecting him and his family, only to fail.  His father dead before him; Ed soon to follow.  At least he had gotten Almas out—

“ _Brother!_ ”

No, no, no.

Ed’s gaze turns in horror to see that Bradley’s sword is now pointed at him, though his eye has turned elsewhere: to another form, forced into kneeling with swords at his back just as Ed is.

“Yes.  Edris, I’m assuming?  The older brother.”  Bradley’s sword descends, and Ed flinches.  Instead of decapitating him, however, it comes to rest underneath Ed’s chin, the point forcing his face upwards until his neck aches.

“I had no desire to harm your people,” Bradley says, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Ed marvels that he is able to sound so cheerful and pleasant after facilitating the murder of—

Ed’s mind nearly shuts down at the thought of what the number might be.

“But you, your family, left us no choice.  When we learned of your alliance with Xing, your plans to invade, we were forced to protect ourselves.”

Something _does_ move inside Ed, then—break, really.  A cold chip of ice that fractures from the freezing numbness inside of him and punches out through his lungs, shattering into a million tiny pieces as a shrill cry of, “ _Liar—!_ ”

Bradley’s sword thrusts forward in an instant, the tip digging into Ed’s throat. He can feel the blood trickle down to the hollow of his neck… and see Bradley’s eye follow its path.

“But I am not without mercy.”  Bradley pulls his sword back slightly, but by now Ed’s eyes are locked so rigidly on Bradley’s face that he can barely breathe.  “I have no desire to wipe out your family.  You are young, and the young make mistakes.  The old, well.”  Bradley’s glance flicks down to Hohenheim’s body.  “Set in their ways, can’t be changed.”

There is a soft, sharp intake of breath from beside him, and Ed finally manages to move his gaze, glancing over at the general beside Bradley. Though Ed’s primary emotion of panic at seeing his father’s blood splattered over another man leaves him mostly dizzy, he is able to catch what he thinks might be a flash of anger in those black eyes before they become unreadable again.

“The best you and your brother could hope for, from most rulers, would be castration, slavery, perhaps a position as concubines.  However, I will allow you a chance to atone for the sins of you and your people.”  He pauses, and Ed tries not to look at the vivid streaks of red that practically _soak_ the other man’s—

“Marry me.”

Ed’s attention fully jerks back to Bradley.

“What?” he manages to croak.

“Become my husband.  You’re, what, twenty-three?  You should already have been considering a betrothal, anyway.”  He chuckles at the flash of anger that runs through Ed’s eyes, but nothing more.  “I will allow you to live—and I even won’t let my men at you.  After all, it would be entirely inappropriate for me to marry someone who isn’t a virgin.”

The thoughts that flit through Ed’s mind—the disgust at that garbage that Bradley is spewing, the horror at the thought, the _terror_ at what will lie in wait for him—all slam to a halt at Bradley’s next words.

“If you’re especially good, I might even consider granting your brother’s life to you as a wedding present.”

Everything else flees his mind at those words, a solid, determined clarity settling within him that is only strengthened at the cry of, “Brother, _don’t—!_ ” and the sound of a fist hitting flesh off to the side.

He looks up, sees Bradley’s still-bloody hand extended, palm down.

Ed’s hands touch the floor, his father’s blood streaming in between his fingers.  He shifts his weight to them and slowly lifts himself onto his hands and his knees.  He feels the pressure of the swords on his back increase, then go completely, presumably with some gesture from Bradley.

He looks up again at the sight before him—of the monster waiting expectantly, of his father’s cooling body, of the pool of blood between them.

“This offer will expire very quickly, Edris.”

Ed takes a deep breath, praying that Bradley doesn’t take the fierceness on his face as defiance.

The blood soaks into the cuffs on his sleeves, the knees and shins of his pants, his boots.  He nearly turns to go around his father, but a glance up at Bradley’s face tells him that will not be permitted.

His right arm nearly gives out as he crawls over his father’s body, trying his best not to jostle the man and whispering silent apologies as an odd burning sensation rises in the back of his nose and throat.

And then he’s there, past the body, past the pool of blood, at Bradley’s hand in the center of a dead silent room.

He doesn’t hesitate.  His hands, now as soaked with his father’s blood as the two men before him, lift to take Bradley’s own.  He presses his lips to the back of the hand, the rank, coppery scent assaulting his nostrils as he feels the stickiness against his lips.

“It would be my honor,” Ed manages to get out, voice cracking, “to marry such a merciful king, who would take the son of a traitor into his household.”

“Very nice.”  Bradley’s voice is as cheerful and pleasant as ever.  “I had hoped we might be able to resolve things peacefully.”

Ed hears another sound—this one sounds like a snort—from beside Bradley, but ignores it.  Instead, he continues to hold Bradleys’—his _fiancee’s_ —hand, lifting his head to look up beseechingly.

“You mentioned a wedding present, Your Majesty?”  He keeps his voice low, pleading, nonthreatening.

“I may have.”  Bradley’s eye glints, and Ed knows it’s of the sight of him, on his knees, begging.  He swallows.

“If I may—if I may request, though I know it is much to ask, after your generosity…”  Ed takes a deep breath.  “The lives, and dignity, of my brother and my people.  I know it is… well within your rights, to raze Xerxes, to enslave its people, but they will surely pledge their loyalty to you, serve you wholeheartedly, once they see what a magnanimous ruler you are.”  Ed swallows, fighting off nausea and dizziness.  “As… as I now wish to do.”

Ed can hear Bradley chuckle, though his smile doesn’t change.

“Now, there’s a pretty mouth.  I believe I’ve made a good decision, choosing you.”  He tugs his hand out of Ed’s, then slides it up to cup his cheek.  Ed very nearly jerks away at the slippery stickiness of blood smearing on his face, into his hair, but he manages to keep completely still.

“I don’t believe I could refuse a request from one who will be such a devoted husband, could I?”

Something—one of the many, many knots inside Ed’s chest—loosens.  He lifts a hand to place it over Bradley’s own.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.  And I will be completely yours.”  Ed swallows, an icy composure settling over his back as he meets Bradley’s eye with his own.  “Body, mind, and soul.”

—

His rooms, irony of ironies, have been left untouched.

He finds no surprise in the discovery; not only does he have no surprise left within him, but even in his brief trip back to his suite with an armed contingent of Amestrians as an escort, he can see that the fighting has only touched a fraction of the palace.  The Amestrians’ presence is everywhere, of course, with twisted corpses littering the halls as servants are set to the task of disposing of the dead and deep splotches of red on the terra cotta tiles where they have already finished their work.  But the destruction, the actual signs of fighting as opposed to killing, are nowhere.  And the bodies, the ones not too mangled or blood-soaked to identify, are all Xerxesian.

This was not a battle.  This was a slaughter.

It takes a bath to remove the blood soaking his skin and hair, his guards ever present as he strips and washes, and it takes the unfamiliar clothing laid out on his bed for him to realize that his servants are unfamiliar—are Amestrian.

The pieces begin to slowly work their way through his numbness, tiny shards of glass advancing through the infinitesimal cracks that inevitably exist in such a sudden reaction, and as they pierce him, they send a flood of horror and realization.

Bradley didn’t just bring an army.  He brought a victory party.  He came prepared to celebrate, to _settle in_ , before even officially starting a war.

 _And why shouldn’t he have?_ Ed can’t help but think bitterly.   _He comes, and Persepolis, and all of Xerxes, falls in a single night._

He takes a step back with a scowl at the servants, glaring suspiciously at the clothing.  "What the fuck is this?“

"Your wedding outfit.”

Ed bristles at the condescension in the servant’s tone, trying to ignore the sharp drop in his gut at the words themselves, and steps back. “Like fuck I’m gonna wear that!”

A hand reaches out and grips his arm, the right one, the bad one.  Ed yelps and nearly falls to the ground, but hangs on to his balance doggedly, the pain not enough for him to allow himself to kneel, naked, in a room full of Amestrian strangers.

“Yes, you will.”  The speaker, the man with a vicelike grip around Ed’s arm, is older, polite-looking, with a pleasant smile on his face that reminds Ed of Bradley.

He catches himself mid-thought and shoves away the fantasies of planting a fist into his face.

“Your husband-to-be will be most displeased if you don’t,” he finishes smoothly, leaving Ed frozen in place.

He tries not to flinch away, gritting his teeth and baring them at the man in attempt to hide the fact that his grimace is one of agony.  “Fuck you, and fuck—”

The blow catches Ed full on the face, and despite his earlier resolve, the floor comes up at him too quickly for him to catch his balance, sending him sprawling across the tiles with a yelp. The man’s boot comes to rest on his shoulder, grinding it into the ground and leaving Ed gasping as his vision nearly goes completely white.

“The next punch will land on your brother’s face.”  The man’s voice is no longer pleasant, having taken on an icy tone instead. “Do you understand?”

Ed’s throat seems to have stopped working, only managing to let out pathetic gasping noises, but after several moments, he finds the ability somewhere within him to nod.

“Good.”  The pressure on Ed’s shoulder lessens, then goes completely, but Ed still isn’t sure how to make his legs work.  “You.”

He hears someone snapping to attention.  “Yes, General Raven?”

“Find a doctor.  His Majesty will be most displeased if his _bride_ bleeds all over his wedding garb.”

Another shard, this one of hot fury, lodges itself in his chest at the jeering words, that these men found _pleasure_ in enacting this farce—this _perversion_ ; that he used the term as something to be mocked—

Ed grits his teeth again, glaring at the way his nails turn white against the red as he grips them to the ground, the buzzing sound of anger growing louder and louder in his ears until nothing but that noise and his ragged gasps surround him.

—

The doctor’s surprisingly gentle treatment and apologies should startle him, but all he can manage is more numbness.  The brisk and unsympathetic treatment of of the servants certainly doesn’t; he finds himself returning their sneers, lifting his chin haughtily to remind them that no matter what Amestrians might think of his people, he is still royalty.  A prince of Xerxes.  Even done up in this ridiculous Amestrian suit, with its buttons and uncomfortable collar and overly tight jacket.

Even being paraded through the halls of his own palace like a curiosity, a freak, on display for the gawkers who fill the halls, once he is dressed, his hair cleaned and tied in the back.  To all appearances, he ignores every last one, eyes flashing, back straight, shoulders down.  He doesn’t have to pay much attention, however, to confirm what he has already suspected: they are all Amestrian, and not soldiers, either, given how closely their clothing resembles his own.

More of Bradley’s celebration party then.  He stares straight ahead, determined to keep his dignity even as he hears a nobleman and woman giggling about how His Majesty had been right; this will make a delightful little palace to spend the winters at.

The anger, the only thing that seems to be able to supplant the numbness, blossoms in his chest again, and he draws on its warmth, its strength, to continue forward, the wheels in his mind beginning to spin.  They look soft, these nobles, unprepared for battle, unused to the harshness of living in a desert that forges a person in heat and resilience.

He doesn’t—he _can’t_ —understand how these people conquered his country.  If he had a weapon—he might be able to grab Raven’s—if he killed enough of them—

They turn a corner.  The entrance of the throne room, the doors through which Ed had walked hours before, leaving a slaughter behind him, stand closed, towering teak monuments to Ed’s complicity and guilt.

And in front of them, his betrothed awaits.  His plans, half-formed thoughts of desperate measures, trickle away like water into the sand, and he bites his tongue.  He’s seen Bradley’s speed with a sword.  He doesn’t have a chance.

Bradley has changed as well, the uniform spotless and with medals pinned to its chest.  Raven pauses when they reach him, and Ed watches them both warily.

“What’s all this?” He snaps.  Surely Bradley isn’t going to marry him in _here_ , not when the palace has celebration halls meant just for that purpose, and not with the dead surrounding them.

“Our engagement celebration, of course,” Bradley answers lightly.  "Surely you don’t think a marriage like ours could take place without festivities?  Someone of your rank deserves only the highest honors.“

Ed hears Raven chuckle off to his left.  "Goodness, what sort of savages do they raise here, to expect nothing.”

Bradley shares in the laugh as Raven bows and leaves, then turns back to Ed.

“You look lovely, Edward.”

Ed would have glanced over his shoulder if he hadn’t been too busy staring down his husband-to-be, who is holding out his arm in a facade of politeness in front of the doors.  Ed reaches out and places his good hand over it lightly, not wanting more contact with the man than is absolutely necessary.  "My _name_ is—“

Bradley’s other hand reaches over to take Ed’s left wrist, the one not in a sling, in what might be an affectionate gesture if he weren’t gripping it hard enough to bruise.  Ed gasps, but then grits his teeth.  He will not scream.

The doors swing open, and they step through together, Ed a puppet on Bradley’s arm.

He nearly halts, stunned, when he realizes what he is seeing.  The slaughter from earlier has been erased, expediently and efficiently, with not a body in sight.  The sun streams in serenely through the glass ceiling, softly lighting the beautifully cultivated trees that line each side of the river Kur.  The river itself babbles softly as it always has, cutting through the throne room, underneath small teak and terracotta bridges on its way through, and finally out of, the palace.

And though the room is crowded again, it is not with his countrymen.  With a surge of bitterness that follows the shock, he wonders if the Amestrian nobility milling and gossipping know how much death was in this room just hours ago, or if they care.

"Ah, Lord Hakuro.”

Ed can hear the smile in Bradley’s voice, but the rest of his attention focuses on the tall man in front of him, solidly built and older, looking down at Ed with a haughty expression on his face.  Ed recognizes it from the throne room as it was before, another of the men at Bradley’s side, narrowing his eyes and searing it into his brain.

“Your Majesty,” Hakuro says with a bow.  "Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your engagement.“  He glances over at Ed, and Ed can see a flash of amusement in his gaze, a tiny smirk playing around his lips.  "Reluctant as your fiancé seems to be.”

Ed grips Bradley’s arm more tightly, the violent words already shaping in his mouth, ready to be spat in the smug bastard’s face as Ed bared his teeth, but Bradley cuts in before he can open his lips, sounding… delighted.

“Nonsense,” Bradley replies cheerfully.  "He wouldn’t _dare_ be.“

Ed freezes.

"After all, this is a wonderful opportunity to keep his country safe, this alliance, after the betrayal of his father.”

He knows neither Bradley nor Hakuro are missing the look Ed is giving Bradley, head barely turning but eyes straining to the side to gaze on him with a stricken expression of absolute fury—horror—fear—but neither of them seem to notice, failing to acknowledge Ed as if he were simply a small child throwing a tantrum.

And Ed knows he can do nothing.

Slowly, as if he were moving on a rusted hinge, he turns back to face Hakuro, gripping Bradley’s arm tightly as he bows.

“It’s an honor,” Ed chokes out, staring determinedly at Hakuro’s chest.  “I am—I am beyond thrilled, for His Majesty to take me as his husband.”

“Now, see there?” Bradley breaks in after a few moments, reaching out to pat Ed’s cheek, cupping under his chin.  “It’s a most auspicious union.”

Hakuro smirks at the two of them, and Ed looks away and down, jaw set bitterly, a humiliating burn creeping up his face.

“Now then,” Bradley continues pleasantly.  "I know there will be countless more of my subjects wanting to meet my betrothed.“

"Meet” doesn’t seem to be the operative word so much as “gawk,” as Ed barely says a single word beyond variations of “pleased to meet you” and “it’s an honor,” forced to stand meekly by Bradley’s side (with a painful grip to the wrist on the occasions that Ed’s standards of “meek” didn’t quite meet Bradley’s) as he is introduced, over and over again, as “Edward, the Xerxesian prince who is absolutely thrilled to become part of our fine country.”  He plays along, jerky yet obedient, appropriate for the role of the self-loathing marionette, into which he’s stepped without a fight.

It doesn’t take Ed long to ascertain Bradley’s intentions: to parade him as a trophy, a curiosity, as living proof that Amestris has reclaimed Xerxes.

Servants mill around with food and drink, some of them Amestrians—others with a masked expression of terror.  Xerxesians.  He snags a goblet of wine from one of them with his bad arm, ignoring the jolt of pain that flares through his entire arm, and tosses it back.

Ed can see Bradley’s plan working, in the eyes of the Amestrian nobility.  He catches far too many sidelong looks accompanied by smirks of smugness or even triumph.  Ed has always known that Amestrians exist who are bitter about Xerxes reclaiming her independence a generation before, who feel that the long centuries of Amestrian rule after her annexation centuries ago give them the right to her lands and people.  But it is not until now that he has _seen_ it, seen how deep that pride and hatred go, seen the barely restrained glee in the seizure—the _subjugation_ —of an entire people, hidden behind polite and respectful masks.  He doesn’t even bother keeping his own polite and respectful, the rage inside of him too potent to conceal.  But his glares only bring more sidelong smiles, patronizing glances, satisfied tones, leaving Ed seething, but even more impotent than before.  He hates them for it, hates them all, wants them all to burn, wants to set the entire room on fire and burn with them, but alongside the waves of fury comes something more insidious, more overwhelming: despair, and with it, hopelessness.  This isn’t an engagement party.  This is a farce.

He grips the goblet, not missing the looks the drink receives, either.  When “Count Archer”’s cold, blue gaze slides slowly and scornfully over it, then up to Ed’s face, Ed simply sneers and tips it back, draining the rest, eyes unblinking and locked on the count’s.

Bradley jerks him away soon after, sending him stumbling in a way that would have undoubtedly gotten wine all over his uncomfortable Amestrian shirt had the glass still been full.  He sets the empty goblet on a passing tray yet again, reaching out to snatch another, but Bradley yanks him in another direction once again, a cold smile on his face when Ed glances over at him, eyes narrowed.

“You’re wanting to forget this day, Edward,” he murmurs.  “I understand.  But I can’t allow that.”

Ed’s breath catches in pain as Bradley reaches around to pat his injured arm before Ed can tuck it back into the sling.

He takes a shaky breath once he is able to secure it, lifting his chin and steeling himself to meet the next Amestrian.

When he turns, it is to nearly plow facefirst into a very large, muscular chest—abdomen, really.  He leaps back to avoid being crushed, tilting his head back to eye the culprit warily.

“Your Majesty,” the man says with a bow to Bradley, then turns to bow to Ed as well, which startles him, but not as much as his next words.  “And this is your betrothed, Edris of Xerxes, yes?”

Ed’s eyes widen at the acknowledgement.  They lock onto the man’s face, the nearly-bald head, muscular face, and large blonde mustache a startling contrast to the kind blue eyes, framed with exceptionally long lashes.  He feels a faint flicker of something that he can’t identify for a moment, so foreign is the concept.

“It’s Edward,” Bradley cuts in smoothly.  “How are you this afternoon, Sir Armstrong?  Edward, this is Alex Louis Armstrong, a knight to the crown and eldest son of one of Amestris’s most noble houses.”

Ed might be imagining it, but he’s _fairly_ certain that those blue eyes narrow slightly in… disapproval?  He suddenly feels more alert than he has all morning, straightening slightly.

“I am quite well.  Thank you for asking, Majesty.  Though I must admit confusion regarding the matter of the name…?”

“Edward thought it best to adopt an Amestrian name, as Xerxes will be adopted into Amestris.  I agreed, and helped him choose one.”

Ed forces a smile, as if in agreement, but this time he definitely does not miss the slight flicker of disapproval to cross the man’s face yet again.  He has no doubt that his own expression is less than sincere, but Bradley is at the wrong angle to see it, and Armstrong—Armstrong has none of the smugness of the other nobles he has met.  Armstrong is watching Ed with an expression that looks remarkably like _respect_.

It gives him the strength he needs to straighten slightly, shoulders back, chin lifted.  “I am honored to meet such a loyal subject of Amestris,” he says quietly, similar enough to the platitudes he had been parroting, but without the subtle infusion of bitterness.  “And to her rulers, as well.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Sir Armstrong replies forcefully, straightening with a fervent look in his eyes.  “The Armstrong family has served the members of the crown for generations, and we will continue to do so, with all of our ability and righteousness!”

For a moment, Ed isn’t sure that he heard correctly.  An Amestrian noble, blatantly offering his support to a conquered prince?  Notably melodramatic, yes, but how else could he have meant it, and how much will the both of them suffer for it?

Ed glances over at Bradley, however, and the only thing he sees is an expression that, as a royal, he isn’t unfamiliar with: an annoyed twist of the mouth, raised eyebrows that indicate that the person in question is trying _very hard_ not to give into their desire to roll their eyes.  Bradley isn’t angry; he only seems to be slightly annoyed.

“I won’t forget your kind words,” Ed manages to murmur, his tone demure but the sharp look he shoots Sir Armstrong anything but.  “Thank you.”

The man bows, then is gone.

“While the Armstrongs are loyal subjects to the crown,” Bradley murmurs, tone very dry, “they often indulge in unnecessary theatrics.  An inconvenience, but not a travesty.  Do try not to gawp like a peasant next time, Edward.”

Ed grits his teeth and narrows his eyes, fighting back a snarled retort.

Still, he isn’t so sure.  That unfamiliar feeling, despite Bradley’s comment, slowly grows, settling in his chest as something that Ed can actually identify.

The next noble to walk up is a Sir Kain Fuery, a young man who appears to be a few years older and a few inches taller than Ed, who makes an off-handed comment about noticing them speaking with Sir Armstrong, who has eyes just as kind when directed at Ed.

Fuery calls him Edris, and Ed allows himself to hope.

Bradley is, of course, quick to correct Fuery, to which the young man looks suddenly stricken—almost _too_ stricken.  “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty, Your Highness.  I meant no offense.”

“And I’m sure none was taken,” Bradley points out quietly.  “Still, I think you might want to spread the word, so no one else makes the same mistake.”

“Absolutely, Majesty,” Fuery replies with a bow.  Once again, Ed has a difficult time containing his surprise at the tameness of Bradley’s reaction, but with Fuery’s embarrassed smile and laugh that borders on adorable and Bradley’s returned smile that is just as close to indulgent, the pieces begin to click into place.

Ed offers Fuery a smile, at which Fuery visibly relaxes, then laughs faintly.  For a moment, Ed wonders if he’s reading too much into Fuery’s reactions, reaching for something that isn’t there, but… natural as it is, something about this entire situation has the very faint hint of a performance around it.

“It was nice meeting you.  I look forward to getting to know you better,” Ed replies politely, but not insincerely.  It _is_ very nice, to get a better read on a monarch’s relationship with his nobility, especially when there is a potential for weakness to be found and exploited.

“A nice boy,” Bradley murmurs once they’ve stepped away.  “But not a lick of common sense.”  Ed glances over and sees that his expression is still indulgent, but with a condescending air that leaves no doubt in Ed’s mind exactly how Bradley feels about his taste in potential acquaintances.

Well, if Bradley is going to _insist_ on underestimating members of his nobility, who can blame Ed for working to use it to his own advantage?

The next noble is as intolerable as the first, as is the next, but the one after seems more sympathetic, if not overtly so.  Still, amongst what he had initially thought would be a sea of superiority and scorn, it is not only refreshing but useful, and Ed stores away each and every encounter of note in the event it can be of use later.

Objectively, he knows that he can’t have been socializing for more than an hour, perhaps an hour and a half, but by the time it seems he has met a member of nearly every noble family of Amestris, it feels as if at least six have passed.  Though he knows that he has absolutely nothing to look forward to this day, or any day soon, he nearly sags in relief when Bradley mentions off-handedly that he believes they’ve spoken with just about everyone.

“You sure you brought enough of your nobles?”  So much time of holding his tongue has gotten very old; he can’t stop the words as his mouth seems to take on a life of his own.  "After all, we’ve got so much room, all this extra space, not like we need any of it, are totally happy to share—“

Bradley yanks Ed to the side again, much harder than before, sending him stumbling.  Ed instinctively tries to put his arm out to steady himself, center his balance, but it catches in the sling, sends another jolt of pain up from his wrist to his shoulder, and unbalances him even further.  He waits for Bradley to grab him again, haul him upright, but when no pressure appears around his wrist and the floor gets steadily closer, he realizes with anger and humiliation that he’s about to crash completely and ignominiously on his face—

Bradley’s hand _finally_ seizes his waist, tugging Ed upright with a startling jerk that manages not to be painful, and Ed overcorrects and stumbles back into his chest.

The Amestrian blue fabric against his cheek, the muscle against his good arm, the nauseatingly hot _presence_ pressing against him, immediately makes Ed wish he had fallen instead, and he recoils backwards, managing to keep his balance this time.

But the man he turns to is not his husband-to-be.

It takes a moment for Ed to place the face, a moment that Bradley uses to stroll over to Ed once again, the pleasant expression on his face laced with enough smugness to let Ed know that failing to grab him was by no means an accident.  But Ed can barely spare a thought for Bradley at the moment, instead narrowing his eyes at the other man.  A couple inches shorter, a few shades paler, but with hair as black as Bradley’s, and Ed had no doubt with a soul to match.  Even his eyes, where Bradley’s are at least a semi-pleasant green, are black, the iris and pupil seeming to be one and the same from this distance.

The resemblance isn’t especially noticeable, but Ed recognizes him nonetheless, would have earlier that day when the man had been standing next to Bradley, soaked in Ed’s father’s blood, watching him just as mercilessly, if Ed hadn’t been so convinced he was going to die.

"Ah, yes, just the person I wanted you to meet, Edward.  This is General Roy Mustang, my son.”

Ed certainly doesn’t need the introduction, staring the man down, though Mustang is watching him with a cold laziness that borders on apathy.   _Everyone_ from the countries anywhere near Amestris knows the name “Mustang.”

His people call him a hero; the “Hero of Ishval,” which any Xerxesian knows was less of a war and more of a slaughter; the unbeatable general, whose attention you very much do not want to attract if you wish to keep the sovereignty of your country.  And more than that, Bradley’s bastard son, one of many, though the only one remaining.  Common knowledge holds that combination of Mustang’s skill on the battlefield and the last remaining member of Bradley’s bloodline secured his position as heir.  If rumor is to believed on that front, Mustang had a hand in both of those… “fortuitous” occurrences.

And now Ed is marrying his father, will undoubtedly be expected to bear him children.  With a chill creeping up his spine, he realizes slowly that Bradley might not be the only one he has to fear, or even the person he should fear the most.

But one person is not going to be Ed’s downfall.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Ed manages to get out, mostly polite but with perhaps a bit more teeth in the reply than is technically appropriate.  "Thank you for your assistance earlier.”

Mustang, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice.  He simply inclines his head, face impassive.  "It was the least I could do.”

His voice is deeper than Ed expected, much deeper than Bradley’s, sending more chills up his spine.  Though the man seems to be relaxed to the point of being almost languid, his poise somehow still seems to suggest that he is prepared for a fight at a moment’s notice, will be nearly impossible to catch off-guard.  Though Bradley has his own air of danger, it’s more of a dawning horror that develops at the realization of the dichotomy between his demeanor and his actions.  This man, Mustang, sends every nerve of alarm in Ed’s body ringing with a shrill warning of, _danger!_

It’s clear enough that Ed swallows down his instinctive reply— _I’ll say_ —and forces another polite smile.  "I’m honored for this opportunity to become a member of your family.”  It isn’t until the words are out that he realizes the implications: this man, likely ten or so years his senior, will become his step-son.

 _That_ is absurd enough that he can’t quite completely stifle a bark of laughter after his words.

Mustang raises an eyebrow, still looking for all the world supremely uninterested in the party or in Ed’s company.  Still, it only raises Ed’s hackles more.  Mustang’s next words, however, surprise him.

"I’m assuming you’ve just realized our future relationship, as my stepfather.  I can imagine how it must startle you.  It is certainly amusing, I think.”  Mustang turns his head to Bradley, a small smile playing at his lips, and Ed has the sudden urge to plant his fist in that mouth.   _Amusing_.  Of course the fucker thinks this is _amusing_.  With every movement, he continues to confirm Ed’s suspicions that this man is a bastard in _every_ sense of the word.  "No disrespect meant, of course, father.  You know I was fully supportive when you announced your intentions to offer marriage to one of the princes, and I think you’ve chosen quite well.”  His eyes flick back to Ed, then give him a quick glance-over that makes Ed’s skin crawl with how similar it is to his father’s.  "I must confess, though, a small amount of regret that he couldn’t be a son-in-law to you, instead.”

Ed’s lips twist.  He will be forced to marry Bradley, but for a moment, he allows a prayer upwards to the gods that he won’t be marrying _this_ piece of garbage.

“Don’t be too terribly jealous.  He’s proven to be quite a handful.  Still, there’s still his brother Alphonse, if you’re interested.”

Ed’s eyes widen.  He stops breathing.

A deep chuckle, and Mustang’s eyes cut to Bradley, then back to Roy.  "Now, father, didn’t you tell me that you’d marry the prettiest prince?  I’d hate to think that you were expecting me to settle for less.”

Ed knows that the information he just heard tells him a great amount about this invasion, that Bradley had _planned_ to marry him or Al, that Al has received an "Amestrian” name just as Ed has, that this was _discussed_ like a dinner topic and that he should be processing this information and analyzing it, but all of that fades out as the anger from before returns in full force.

Discussing Ed as a prize is bad enough, diminishing him to a “pretty prince,” but Al—how _dare_ they treat him like a toy, like a consolation prize to be forced into some murderous prince’s bed for no sake other than idle amusement?  For a moment, just a brief moment, Ed reconsiders anything favorable he’s thought about the Amestrians, wants them all to burn once again.

But, he thinks as he tries to breathe again, he will be satisfied with just Bradley and his bastard, even if he dies along with them.

Ed can see from the raised eyebrows on Mustang’s face that his thoughts, or at least the general intent behind them, are likely written across his face.  He finally manages a deep breath, trying to school it under control, praying that he does so before Bradley notices and decides to make Ed regret it.  Though, he thinks with a wry twist of his lips that at least does a bit towards relaxing his expression, Mustang will certainly tell Bradley about it later.

“Not at all,” Bradley replies cheerfully, the conversation not having stopped, Bradley not seeming to realize that anything out of the ordinary has happened.  "I simply thought I’d let you know that the option is available.”

"Thank you very much, father, but I’d certainly hate to overshadow your wedding, as momentous as it is.”  His eyes cut to Ed again, and it takes everything Ed has to keep from bristling again.

“I appreciate your consideration.  I suppose I should be focusing on that right now, shouldn’t I?  It’s in a few hours, after all.  Right after the coronation.”

Ed tenses at the word, wishing that every word in this conversation didn’t feel like Bradley is yanking him off-balance a little more each time.  Of course there will be a coronation; but to do it now, when his father’s body is undoubtedly still cooling it its tomb—buried in a hasty ceremony that Ed was not permitted to attend—sends his skin crawling, leaves his lungs breathless with the disrespect of it all.

“In fact,” Bradley continues, voice silky and quiet, “I think everything has been prepared by now.  Shall we start?”

Ed can’t help it: he stares in undisguised disgust at the arm that Bradley offers him, wondering again if there’s some way to kill them both, right now, in front of everyone—

But Almas would be the one to suffer for it.

He takes a deep breath and places his hand on his betrothed’s arm, allowing himself to be led to the throne.


	2. Chapter 2

The coronation is Xerxesian.

Though the event is a perversion of his country’s rules of succession, rushed into being by those who have murdered the last king and foregoing the traditional month of mourning, Ed allows himself some small comfort in a ritual that he knows very well may be some of the last Xerxesian culture he is allowed.

Not that there _are_ many Xerxesians there to witness it, beyond those officials required by law.  And Ed has no doubt that their presence as well as holding to the legal tradition has nothing to do with preserving it and everything to do with ensuring Bradley’s takeover is completely legal within the eyes of Xerxesian law.  He sees Al within moments of entering, blessedly unharmed, though in the same ridiculous Amestrian clothing as Ed and flanked by an enormous blonde man nearly as large as Armstrong and with a similarly ridiculous mustache.  Still, there is no time to do anything beyond meet Al’s eyes, full of a horror as potent as the one in Ed’s chest, before the priest begins the ceremony.

As he kneels to be crowned, to accept the sacred ceremonial robe that has been one of his father’s most treasured articles of clothing until today, he thinks desperately for a way out, a loophole that will save them all.  He’s heard the words countless times—brilliant; prodigy; genius—but what good do they do him if he can’t come up with _something_ to make this right.

The ancient Xerxesian finishes ringing out in the throne room, its echoes fading into silence broken only by the Kur.

It is supposed to be a contemplative moment, or so Ed has been taught.  The respectful silence of men, but with a reminder that the king is _just_ a man, that the river, the land, the _people_ of Xerxes, will remain and endure long after the trappings and power of his office is gone.

It is a good sentiment, in theory.  But not now.

Ed rises when it is finished.  He is King of Xerxes, and he has never had less power in his life.

—

Ed navigates pockets of more insincere well-wishers—no, Bradley _leads_ him through pockets of more insincere well-wishers, his hand curling around Ed’s fingers almost daintily in a mockery of escorting.  Ed does his best to ignore them all other than polite, jerky nods, but can’t stop the surge of guilt whenever he looks quickly away from the occasional golden-eyed stare of a fellow countryman.

“Certainly a ceremony I’ve never seen the likes of before,” Bradley murmurs into his ear, from a distance likely appearing the caring and attentive husband-to-be.  The mockery in his voice, however, leaves Ed no doubt what he thinks of their “traditions.”  “Impractical, though.  I’m sure you’ll agree, once we finish all of this, that there are changes that need to be made.”

“Oh, totally agree,” Ed drawls, if quietly.  “In fact, one of my favorite things is strangers coming in and telling us how to run things.  Especially when it’s not their country and they have no right to.  I fucking _love_ busybodies who don’t actually know what they’re talking about.”

He expects Bradley to trip him, or subtly hurt him in some way—he’s fairly certain he’s developing bruises from earlier—but his only reaction is a faint laugh.

“You cannot fathom the things I am going to do to your mouth later, Edward, and your prospects get worse with every word it speaks.”

The reminder of the reality of his situation returns like a hot brand in his stomach—and not for the first time, Ed is glad that Bradley can’t read his mind.  It would probably give the bastard ideas.

Ed, however, refuses to let the fear show on his face.  “Maybe not, but here’s something for _you_ to fathom: my teeth, biting down and sinking into your—”

“Your Majesties.”

 _That_ produces an unpleasant jolt that shows on Ed’s face.  It’s a small thing, the title, and it hasn’t quite sunk in yet—and fits like a bad glove.  He is supposed to be _Highness_ , not Majesty; Majesty is—

“We’ve prepared the meeting room, as requested.”  The Xerxesian woman can’t keep the nerves out of her voice, bowing low and glancing from Bradley, to Ed—and quickly away.  “The legislators are prepared for you, whenever you both are ready.”

“Thank you.”  Bradley’s curt voice causes her to flinch slightly, looking a bit like a gazelle cornered by a leopard.  “You are dismissed.”

She scampers off, and Bradley continued forward—in the direction, Ed realizes, of the King’s meeting room.  Something ugly—the same something ugly that has been slithering around in his mind for a while now—creeps into his tone.

“How do you know where it is?” he asks quietly, looking over.

Bradley doesn’t respond, but Ed can see his eyes flick in his direction, then away, with a little smirk on his lips.

"Fine.  I get it.  You've won."  For now, Ed silently promises himself, but right now he can't even begin to order his thoughts without knowing, to put it bluntly, _what the fuck had happened._  "Don't you think that you should at least explain how?"  He yanks his hand out of Bradley's and stops, forcing the man to either pause and face him or leave him behind.  "How the _fuck_ did you get your army into our city?  Where is everyone?  You might have _murdered_ plenty of our guards, but where are the rest?  There weren't enough bodies.  And yeah, I checked."  To say nothing of the nobility who roomed at the palace—Ed hadn't seen a single one today yet.

"I may be rusty when it comes to etiquette in these matters, but to my knowledge, a people who have been conquered as thoroughly as yours aren't entitled to _anything._ "

Ed doesn't bother hiding his eyeroll from Bradley's first sentence onward.  Rusty his ass.  "A courtesy, then," he snaps.  "Besides, I'm sure you want to share what a _brilliant_ plan you executed, to get one over on us savages, right?"

"You say that like it would be difficult. With a prince—pardon, king—whose attempts at manipulation are so embarrassingly clumsy and childlike, it's no wonder it proved to be a task that, indeed, could have been completed by children."

Ed bristles immediately.  His comment had been transparent in its false flattery, yes, but he hadn't actually meant it to _sincerely_ entice him into sharing.  "I don't—"

"Regardless, do you truly expect me to start laughing menacingly and detailing my evil plot in the hallway of my palace?  I expected more from even you."

"At least you're admitting that it's evil," Ed snaps.  "First steps and all."

Bradley just sighs.  "You're not very good at this, are you?  Well, then think of this as an opportunity.  A challenge, for one, to discover precisely what happened over the past twenty-four hours.  And a happy circumstance, allowing you to pass the mantle of power to someone far more suited to it than you, while saving face at the same time.  Your country will be the better for a competent ruler, I assure you."

Ed clenches his fist, the one in the sling, sending the now-familiar streaks of pain up to his shoulder.  He knows the look in his eyes promises murder, and for a moment, he wants to see how far he can push Bradley.  He wants to see if he can drive him to drastic measures—a backhand to Ed's face, a punch in the gut... or a well-placed blade, ending Bradley's problems once and for all.  Bradley stares back at him, a dangerous gleam in his eye that is so unlike his usual "cheerful" self.  Ed meets his gaze with his own, knowing very well the power of its intensity.  He can almost physically _feel_ the energy between the two of them, the pressure as their wills collide, challenging the other to back down.

And then Bradley just... loses interest.

It certainly isn't backing down—there's too much apathy in his response for that.  He simply slides his gaze away like a disinterested cat, not quite with a roll of the eyes but with the definite implications.  Ed feels almost as if he is staggering forward, off-balance again, trying to recover after the wall against he was pushing simply... vanished.

"Please, Edward.  You're bleeding."

Ed glances down, startled, to see that spots of blood are seeping through the bandage wrapped around his forearm.  The rest of the bandages are too bulky to for him to roll up the odd Amestrian shirt the rest of the way, but from the stinging up his bicep and through his shoulder, he realizes that he has reopened those wounds as well.

Bradley sighs, a patronizing, almost indulgent noise that is more like one from a father to a small child than one to a betrothed.  "If you are going to throw tantrums, at least try not to physically harm yourself when doing so."

Ed would have to be an idiot not to catch the implication: his defiance is simply not worth Bradley's time.

"Gotta say, you're giving off mixed signals about your concern for my well-being," he snaps, eyes narrowed.  Bradley simply takes his good hand again, starting down the hallway.

"So, if you're to mine information from me, permit me a moment of indulgence."

"As opposed to what?  Haven't you already got enough of that?"

"Today, your first indication that something was wrong.  What was it?"

The question startles Ed, and sends his stomach rolling unexpectedly.  He has been hoping not to revisit those memories for a while; has shoved them away whenever they try to resurface.  Has been able to, by concentrating on playing these games—on staying alive, and making sure his brother does the same.  But Bradley’s words force him to focus on everything he is trying to forget: the panic, the helplessness, the confusion, all within minutes of waking up.

—

For the first few moments after he was wrenched out of his sleep, he thought that it had been the distant tolling of the palace’s belltower, heralding the arrival of dawn.  A quick glance outside the window told him that there was no other reason for him to be up so early; the sky was beginning to lighten, already a soft gray-blue that meant the sun would be up in, at most, an hour.

The clashing of metal and screams jerked him out of his sleep-fogged reverie, sending him sitting bolt upright.

He leaped out of bed, stumbling over to his wardrobe and wracking his mind for who was on duty tonight.

“Jesper!” he called out, voice still sleep-hoarse as he shoved his legs into a pair of trousers, then grabbed the first tunic his fingers touched.  “Jesper!  Are you there?”

He heard the servant’s door slide open, and the familiar form emerged, golden eyes wide and dark skin several shades paler than usual, from what Ed could ascertain.  “Prince—Prince Edris, I just heard—I don’t know what’s—”

Another scream, this time louder, cut through the air, and Jesper flinched.

“I don’t, either.”  Ed tried not to let his voice come across as grimly as he felt, but from the sinking expression on the servant’s face, he could tell he was unsuccessful.  “Look, you’re—can you—”  He hesitated, mind immediately visualizing the palace and the likelihood of attack routes based on where the defenses would be weakest in the city before reaching the palace.  “Whatever it is, it’s not good.  Go back through the servant’s door.  Find my brother.  Get him up if he isn’t, and get him out of the palace.  I’m giving you royal permission to drag him if you have to.”  He could see Jesper blanch, but there was no time for niceties now.  He paused, listening more, for one thing in particular—and then realized the guard bells were not ringing.

The tension in his chest grew, slowly churning into dread and anxiety.

“And—and head to the guards’ barracks.  I don’t think—I can’t hear the alarms.  If they’re not fighting…”

“Understood, Highness.”  Jesper’s voice shook, and his face had now gone very pale underneath his freckles, but he stood at attention.  “And—and what about yourself?”

Ed took a deep breath.

“If there’s anything I can do to stop this, I need to.  But don’t let Al do the same.  But I’ll follow if I can’t do anything without getting myself killed.  Understood?”  Jesper hesitated, but before he could say something that was probably going to involve a protest involving how the crown prince shouldn’t endanger himself, Ed snapped, “I _command_ it.”

Jesper made a terrified-sounding noise and fled, the servant’s entrance clicking shut behind him.

Ed finished tugging on his boots—though they were more unwieldy than his usual sandals, if there was to be fighting, he would need them—and grabbed the sword hanging from his weapon rack.

When he opened the door, the sword nearly fell from his fingers.

A dozen, maybe more, soldiers in Amestrian colors marched up the hallway from the opposite direction that Ed had expected.  In front of them, several fleeing Xerxesian servants, most in nightclothes, ran in Ed’s direction, eyes wide in terror.  One woman wasn’t fast enough: when she stumbled, two soldiers ran her through with their spears, then stepped over her body as if it were refuse.

Ed didn’t hesitate, regardless of any promises and positions and ranks.  He charged.

A third of the way there, a handful of guards rounded the corner of a side hall, nearly colliding with him.  He leaped back, aiming his sword at them instinctively before realizing that not only were they wearing the Xerxesian uniform of plate mail and leather, but he recognized them.

“Highness!” one of them gasped, eyes widening, and the servants, who had nearly reached them, hesitated for a moment at the word, glancing uncertainly at Ed, undoubtedly not sure if they should leave the crown prince behind.

“Go!” Edris snapped, waving his hand in the opposite direction and pointing authoritatively.  They didn’t need second instructions.  They ran.

“Kir,” he continued, turning back to the guard—Ed remembered being at the ceremony where he had been promoted to a captain, several months back.  “What’s—”

“I don’t know,” Kir babbled.  “We’re the only ones—I haven’t seen anyone else alive—”

Ed uttered a foul word utterly unbecoming of a prince, but at the moment he didn’t fucking care.  “C’mon,” he ordered, jerking his head in the direction of the advancing Amestrians.  He didn’t wait to see if they followed before charging once again.

They obviously expected anyone who would try such a foolhardy attack to be unskilled, and he caught them by surprised, beheading one and getting another through the chest in two quick movements before leaping back.  He stepped sideways, already calculating just how to move in order to make them get in each other’s way.  They were already stumbling—over each other, into Ed’s sword—when the four guards came in behind him, and together they made quick work of the group.

“Shit.” Ed hissed, wiping sweat from his forehead, then glancing down and realizing it wasn’t the only thing he needed to be wiping.  Glancing around to ensure that the hallway was clear, he knelt to clean his sword on one of the Amestrians’ blue uniforms.

“Kir, where is my father?  Do you know?”

The young man took a deep breath as Ed stood, clearly trying to calm himself.  “I’m not sure, but we’ve heard of soldiers grouping in the throne room.”

That made sense.  Its central location provided easy access to many parts of the palace and made it ideal for an invading army to secure—and crucial for a defending one to protect.  “Then we’re headed there.  All of you, follow—fuck!”

He recoiled backwards at the whizzing of something right past him, nearly skimming the top of his head off.  A choking noise to his right had him turning before he could register the source, and Kir collapsed to his knees, then crumpled to the side, an arrow in his throat.

“Highness!”  Another guard, a woman by the sound of her voice, grabbed him and turned, facing her back towards the direction from which the arrow had just come.  Two more whizzes and clunks sounded through the air, the arrows, from the sound of it, bouncing harmlessly off of her armor where Ed’s very unshielded body had been moments ago.

Two more twangs sounded in response, this time from very close by, and when the woman let him go, he saw another guard, this one a shorter man with broad shoulders, lowering a bow.

“Scared ‘em off, for now, I think, Highness,” he muttered, the broad vowels marking him as a native to the Northern part of Xerxes.  “Not sure how long that’ll last, though.”

Ed exhaled with a small amount of relief, turning to the three guards and glancing over their badges.  The falcon’s wings on the woman who had saved him told him what he needed to know.

“What’s your name?”

“Roksana, Highness,” she replied sharply with a quick inclination of her upper body; not enough to be a proper bow, but appropriate enough for a situation that required speed.  Her accent, on the contrary, was that of a Persepolis resident, born and raised.

“Roksana.  Guess you’ve just got a field promotion.  Kir said throne room?”

“Yes, Highness.  We… eight of us realized that something was wrong when we heard screams and started in this direction.  This is all that’s left.  We haven’t encountered any other living guards, only servants and staff.  They’ve mentioned that fighting seems to be centralized around the throne room.  It’s where we were headed.”

Edris nodded.  “Then let’s get on it.”

—

“Dawn, then.”  Bradley sounds insufferably pleased.  Ed holds his tongue; instead of commenting, he imagines ripping out the hairs of Bradley’s mustache one by one.  “An admirable effort on your part, I will say, though by then it was much too late.”

“Good, nice and ominous.  I’m sure you’re proud of yourself,” Ed snaps, bristling despite his best efforts (and mental images).  “Now are you gonna tell me or not?  I just told you, so you owe—”

“You speak like a commoner,” Bradley interrupts idly, and Ed wonders how he’d feel if his _leg_ hairs were all ripped out as well.  “Why is that?  Is it true, what they say, that your mother was some half-breed whore who spread her legs to get above her station?”

Ed is going to _kill_ him.

He snarls, lunging forward.  He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, not really.  His right arm burns with pain as he reaches for a sword that isn’t there; his left fist cocks back, ready to knock teeth from a jaw.  His lips pull back from his teeth; if nothing else, he can tear Bradley’s throat out.

Bradley’s arm lashes out to seize Ed’s shoulder, and while he would have thought, moments ago, that his rage was strong enough to power him through the pain, his knees seem to think otherwise, crumpling as he gasps and sags, a pained sob in the back of his throat as Bradley hauls him up again.

He has to grip Bradley’s arm to keep himself upright, and he almost throws himself to the tiles again.

“There, there, Edward.  I understand it’s been an emotional day for you,” he murmurs, and out of the corner of Ed’s eye, he can see that nobility—Amestrian, of course—is beginning to crowd around them.  They are pretending to be concerned, of course, but Ed knows that the weasels are playing, wanting to get a good look at the poor, helpless, barbarian prince.  “Please, everyone, try not to crowd him.  He’s still in shock from his horrible ordeal this morning.”

Ed gasps his fury, trying to gather his wits enough to struggle away, but this only encourages Bradley: “Now, my dear, don’t cry.”  Ed can feel his hand lift to cradle the back of his head, pulling him in further to hide his expression from the onlookers.

He wants to vomit.

“Please, out of the way.  We have official business to attend to.”

They slowly disperse, and Ed staggers along, half-led, half-dragged, until they reach the teak door that is his father’s— _his_ —best meeting room, used for only the most important of meetings.  Such as visiting royalty.  Or invading royalty, apparently.

The door swings open.  The two of them walk in, Ed mostly recovered by now.  The men—and they _are_ all men, Ed notices with no small amount of perturbation—stand and bow before Bradley takes a seat, indicating that Ed is to sit next to him.

When he lowers himself into the chair and glances at the papers in front of him, his stomach sinks.

“A merging of this proportion requires an appropriate legal agreement.  I’ve already had something drafted up, but we would, of course, value your input before the final version.

Ed turns to see Bradley’s eye fixed on him, a smile playing around the man’s lips.  He tries not to shake as he stares, wondering how one man, one person, can be this _evil._

He looks down again.

_A document for the union of the sovereign countries Amestris and Xerxes, to be sealed with a marriage between the two rulers._

For a moment, Ed wishes he had died in the throne room.

—

If Ed never has to hear or see the words “Sovereign Monarch of Xerxes” again, it will be too soon.

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, when he staggers out of the meeting room hours later: the very notion that he is sovereign over anything is laughable, especially after signing a document that guaranteed not only his death, but Almas’s—or “Alphonse,” according to the agreement—as well, if Bradley were to die and his killer remained unidentified.  And that is the worst part of it all, he thinks; if it had just required Ed’s death, he would have disposed of the bastard in a heartbeat on their wedding night.  But Bradley is too canny for that.

Ed did his best, in the drafts, to mitigate where he could—and he did have a slight benefit, of knowing the intricacies of Xerxesian law better than any of the Amestrians, and therefore was required to construct pieces of the contract to fit within its law.

It did him no good, though.  The pages are written, the agreement signed and sealed by the both of them.  And by the end of the evening, everything that is now legally Ed’s will be legally Bradley’s, his country included.  And Ed will have just as much power in name, and none in reality.  No Amestrian will listen to a Xerxesian, and no Xerxesian will listen to a pr—a king who has given up so much to Amestris, has agreed to bear its heir and take _Roy Mustang_ as one provisionally.

The general had, of course, been at the meeting—telling, seeing as Al had not.  Ed had tried to gauge the man’s thoughts on the entire matter, but he had been even more unreadable than Bradley.

He shoves those thoughts away, focusing on more important matters for the moment.

“You never told me how you did it,” Ed snaps as they leave the room, bad arm cradled in his good so Bradley can’t take his free hand again.  Or won’t try, anyway; Ed knows that he _could_ if he really wanted to, but if it’s enough trouble, maybe he won’t.

“No, I didn’t,” Bradley murmurs, seemingly unconcerned with Ed’s attitude.   _That_ worries Ed more than his words.  “And we certainly don’t have time for that now.  The wedding is soon, after all, and you’ve yet to address your people as their new king—”

“Ex fucking scuse me?”

“Address your people, Edward,” Bradley says slowly, and Ed genuinely considers finding some way to set him on fire the next time he talks to Ed like he’s a child.  “It’s customary for a new king to do so, correct?”  He shrugs.  “And explain what happened.  A lot of lives were lost today.  Most of your palace guard, if I understand correctly, and many of the resident nobility.  People will want answers.”

A ringing noise echoes in Ed’s ears at the words.  He has known that the chances were not good for most of those in the palace, but to hear it confirmed…

“How many?” he asks hoarsely.

The sound of papers rustling nearly mask Bradley’s soft chuckle, and Ed finds himself presented with a stack of them.

“I understand that you must be grieving terribly.  Many of us do, of course, and would never expect you to force yourself to plan out an announcement regarding the tragic fate of your father.  Thankfully, some generous individuals have written up an account of the event, which you will deliver in thirty minutes.  I recommend reading it before you do; it will answer the questions you so badly wanted answered.”

The promise of answers immediately pushes any thoughts of protest out of his mind.  For a moment Ed thinks that this might be some sort of joke, but the deaths of so many—hundreds, at _least_ , cannot go unanswered, and Bradley is smart enough to know this.  So there must be _something._

They walk.  He reads.

Five minutes later, his hands are shaking, trembling so badly he would drop the papers if he hadn’t been gripping them so tightly.

“No,” he chokes out, voice hoarse.  “No.  I can’t—I can’t do this.”

“Your people deserve the truth, Edward.  As does your brother.  Who knows what awful rumors might spread about his involvement, and how he might suffer because of it?”

Ed grips them even more tightly, dizzy with how quickly the blood has rushed from his face, heedless of the pain that indicates it is very likely his wound is pulling open again, or about to do so.  He’s forgotten how to breathe.

Ahead of them, he sees the exit, the one that leads to the balcony, which looks over all Persepolis.  By all rights, his coronation should have taken place here, the celebration of the birth of a new era of his country.

Instead, it is going to be where Ed became complicit in the plan to destroy it.

—

Ed can only stare out amongst the sea of golden-haired, golden-eyed faces for a few moments before he looks away.  Their expectant stares, frightened, yes, but hopeful and relieved to see that he is still alive, are too much for his guilt.

His gaze, however, is drawn past them, the enormous crowd that has gathered to see its sovereign speak, past the heralds spaced out to repeat the words inaudible to those further back or unable to crowd in, to the great fountain that is the centerpiece of the palace’s courtyard.

Not a soul is near it.

Though the autumn weather is not as punishing as the summer’s would be, it is hot enough that there would usually be several bystanders enjoying the slight coolness that it gave off, if not using the water itself to splash their faces.

But the fountain’s water is… no longer there, for the most part, which is strange.  Xerxes’s irrigation and plumbing is one of its greatest prides: Persepolis had tamed the River Kur, redirecting its mighty flow through the palace for both beauty and purpose.  Baths, fountains, pools; the river provides enough for this and more, distributed throughout the grounds and then the city proper.

But it’s almost as if it is—

A nasty thought worms into his mind.  The central fountain, the beautiful creation of alabaster and marble, is fed water directly through the throne room.  It seemed to be a blockage, as a tiny stream of water still trickled through it before vanishing yet again into the ground.

He involuntarily recalls the image of the body of a dead guardsman floating down the throne room’s river, three arrows in his back.

He suddenly doesn’t want to wonder _why_ the water’s flow is blocked.

He jerks his eyes back to the crowd gathered before him, nauseous with the thought of what he is about to do.

The pleasantries come easily, more easily than they should, a standard greeting, well-wishes of the gods upon them.  He can practically feel the tension ebbing out of the people, seeing that their prince is alive and well.  But it doesn't dissipate entirely, and another thread of unease grows: Ed is well, yes, but where is their king?

He takes a deep breath.

"It is with a heavy heart that I must announce that I address you today, not as your prince, but as your king."

The news rocks through the crowd like a roll of thunder, and Ed carries on before he can lose his nerve.

"Yesterday, as far as we have been able to determine, an elite force of Xingese spies infiltrated the palace.  We have yet to find out when they arrived, but we do know that one of their first acts was to poison the entirety of the food in storage at the guardhouse.  Our loyal guard did not know it at the time, but when they took their evening meal, it would be their last."

He pauses to take a deep breath before he can continue, and hears a shocked and horrified wave spread among his people.  Becoming a member of the palace guard is a respectable position for a city resident; many families had at least one relative who had served, and the wails of despair that he hears are likely from them.

He looks back down.

"Early this morning, under the cover of darkness, the Xingese struck.  I saw much of the slaughter, the death that these cowards visited on many unsuspecting victims, sparing neither noble nor servant."  He swallows.  "Those who did survive—and there were not many—fought bravely, but so few could hardly hope to do anything against such a force."  He has to take a deep breath before the next part, loathing coursing through him with every syllable.

"If it had not been for our Amestrian allies, all of us would be dead.

"For months, our agents have been reporting whispers of reconnaissance, of a Xingese attack to be leveled here, at the heart and jewel of Xerxes.  My father dismissed such notions as folly, insisting that there was nothing to fear."  He lifts his eyes again, the confusion from his words clear amongst the crowd.  "But I could not rest, knowing that this city, this nation, might be in danger.  I wrote to Amestris, asking for aid."

The uproar his words cause is so loud that Ed has to wait a moment for it to subside before he continues.  He can't deny that the energy of the crowd pulls to him, makes him want to join it, to _rebel_ against these Amestrian interlopers, but he keeps his face carefully blank.  After several minutes and a good deal of posturing from the Amestrian soldiers, he is able to speak again.

"You might think this foolhardy, and I did think long and hard on my actions.  But despite our troubled pasts together, I knew that Amestris understood the threat from Xing, and did not doubt that they could refuse to offer aid to another country so plagued, not with our heritages bound so closely together."

He pauses, reading the next note in the lines he is reciting, and realizes that it is an instruction, not something to be read.  Hiding the disgusted curl of his lip, he turns to Bradley, who is standing off to the side, and nods.  Bradley returns it, first to Ed, then to the crowd.  They are not won, not even close, but the black anger in its tone has lessened slightly, replaced by one of confusion.

"In his generosity, King Bradley agreed to send his troops to bolster ours, in the event of attack.  Praise the gods that he arrived when he did.  I had just awoken to news that he and his men had arrived when I heard of the attack.  I ordered them let into the city, and it was only due to their swift intervention that everyone was not completely annihilated."

Ed stops before speaking, for quite a while this time.  He can't completely hide his emotions, not at this.  To everyone watching, it must appear that he is struggling with something—which he is, but not what they will think.

“Our initial goal was to secure the throne room.  When we arrived…”  He breaks off again, mouth simply _not wanting to move_ , and he has to steady himself for a moment.  “When we arrived, His Majesty was there.  He was not alone.”

The entire crowd is silent.  Ed does not think he has ever seen such a thing in all his years as Xerxesian royalty.  On an impulse, he wonders if it might not be the better option to leap off the balcony and end this farce right here.  The thought of what would happen if he did sends more puzzle pieces clicking into place, not strictly realizations; more subconscious suspicions that make more sense the further they linger in his mind and draw to the forefront.  They will fight, undoubtedly, if they realize the situation Ed has been forced into.  They will riot against the Amestrian presence, if not down to the last person, then close, and not just the Persepolins, either.  Ed cannot imagine that _any_ Xerxesian would tolerate being under Amestrian thumb again.  Bradley would find his hands full with a rebelling population, and though its militaristic might could not match Amestris's, its scientific and magical might would ensure that, if Bradley did win the land on which Xerxes stood, there would be nothing left for him there.

And that is why he needs Ed.

Which leads him back to his first thought: he can end this.  One step, maybe two—

But the death.  The death will be unthinkable.

He prays a fervent, silent apology to the spirit of his father.

"He was conferring with a Xingese man.  Conspiring with him.  Before he saw me, I heard him instructing the man on the palace's weaknesses.  When he did, when he realized that I had heard..."  Ed closed his eyes.  "He, and the Xingese man, attacked.  If it had not been for King Bradley's quick reaction, I would be dead now."  He opened his eyes and gestured at his injured arm.  "It was still a very near thing.  My father did not survive."

He has to raise his voice to be heard over the murmuring that starts at his words.  He supposes he is lucky that it is not an uproar, as it would be if they were furious with the death, unconvinced of the story.  They are _upset_ , of course, but they _know_ Ed.  Why would he lie about such a thing?  "Only once the Amestrians secured the palace, gathered the survivors, and slew the Xingese invaders, were we able to assess the scope of the attack.  It… it burdens my heart to tell you of what we found.”

The crowd has quieted again.  Ed takes a deep breath.  “Barely a hundred Xerxesians survived the attack.  This includes nobility, servants, guards and other staff.  We have gathered names of the survivors, and will be working to ensure that they are all reunited with their families.”

He runs his thumb across the corner of the podium, staring at the next set of lines.  He tries to summon more anger, more _fury_ , but right now all he feels is weariness and guilt.

“I have spent the day arranging how we are to recover from this disaster, but also wondering how it could have happened.  A question I am sure many of you share as well.  Upon learning the truth, I now wish I had it unanswered as well.”  He swallows.  “Upon searching through my late father’s correspondence, I found several letters exchanged between him and the Emperor of Xing.  I do not know how many of you know of the rumors that the Emperor has a way of achieving eternal life, or believe them.  My father did.  I saw, with my own eyes, the agreement that he made with Xing: he would hand over our country, our wealth, our people, in exchange for this gift.  He allowed the Xingese inside, gave them the intelligence needed to kill who they needed.  All so Xing would now have Xerxes’s might as well as their own to launch an attack on Amestris.”

The crowd is yelling now, shock and disbelief rippling through them.   _How could King Hohenheim do such a thing?_ they must be wondering.  Ed wants to tell them, wants to scream it, but...  "The Xingese murderers will hang on the walls, as a warning to those who would attack us so.  But we are now vulnerable, at risk not just of another Xingese attack, but from any of our neighbors.  Our might must be bolstered."  Ed wonders what poor individuals Bradley has arranged to play the part of the "Xingese invaders;" he has not seen them yet, but has no doubt that they had been brought along from the start.

"The decision I made was difficult, but upon consideration, I have made it.  Xerxes and Amestris are to become one country, effective immediately, with both King Bradley and I acting as co-rulers.  We will seal this contract with a marriage this evening."

Uproar.  Outrage.  Shock.  They are not at the point of rioting, but he will have to act quickly to keep them from getting there.  Much as he hates the next set of lies he has in front of him, it will keep many lives from being lost.  "Both of us will share power equally, and benefit equally from this alliance.  The process will be a long one, and difficult, but our country will not survive if we do not change, and our neighbors will be with us to ensure our protection.  I ask that you offer them the same courtesy that they did us, and it is with gratitude and pride that I welcome them." He performs the Xerxesian salute, a fist over his chest and a bow of his head.  "Glory and honor be to Xerxes and its people.”

He steps back, picking up the papers, as the crowd erupts.  He sees Bradley waiting for him, arm extended, and steels himself as he reaches out to take it.  Ed has done all he can to mitigate what damage there might be, cowardly of an option as it is.  He knows that he will be blamed for this, will never be trusted by his people again, but this is all he can do.

He can only pray that it will be enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's taken me this long to get this one up!
> 
> At the risk of spoilers, not-good stuff happens in this chapter so please read warnings and be safe guys.

Ed keeps his eyes locked on the ground to his right, fixed on a spot that allowed him to avoid seeing much else.  He tries to push out the droning words of the ceremony, shut them out, thrust them away.  Still, as he studies his chosen tile in question, he begins to realize, slowly and horribly, that the irregular splotches of darkness in the cracks aren’t simply shadows.  If Ed’s memory is correct, given their location, their distance from the throne, he is staring at—focusing on—his father’s blood, soaked into the cracks on the floor.

Bradley’s hands are warm around his, sticky and oppressive, more like manacles than the embrace of a husband.  The pain in his shoulder is a constant twinge that, between it and the tiled floor, keeps him from having to focus too much on the droning of the Amestrian priest.

Not for the first time this day, Ed fervently wishes that his father had had the foresight to remove the Amestrian marriage ceremony as one legally recognized by Xerxesian law; yes, it may have caused some friction amongst those who were of Amestrian descent, but it had to be better than—

But why would he have needed to?  Ed thinks it bleakly, head stuffy and heavy with exhaustion.  (He isn’t giving up, he isn’t—but he needs to take a breather occasionally, right?)  He couldn’t have foreseen this.  Ed has spent hours, every hour since his speech, going through every scrap of their international intelligence in excruciating detail, going back years, coming up with nothing.  This should have been impossible; and yet, here they are.

He can hear Bradley’s deceptively pleasant voice speak up, which draws his attention back to the present.  It takes him a moment to realize what has just been said: an acknowledgement of their union, an acceptance of Ed as his spouse.

And then the question is posed to Ed: if he is entering this union of his own free will, if he will take King Bradley as his husband.  He lifts his gaze to Bradley’s, who is watching him steadily, then sweeps it out over the crowd of Amestrian faces.

They’re difficult to read, nearly every one of them.  He sees satisfaction in some; the higher ranked, older men especially.  Hakuro.  Raven.  Archer.  Others—Armstrong, Fuery—seem like they might be masking uncertainty.  And the security… the number of Amestrian guard is more than double what any Xerxesian would have posted, even for a royal wedding.

Mustang is utterly unreadable, but Ed catches what he thinks might be a flash of—but it’s gone before Ed can even begin to identify it.

One, Xerxesian, catches his attention, and for a moment, Ed’s eyes rest on Al’s stricken face.

He turns back to Bradley, chin raised, steel in his eyes and in his heart.

“I am.  I will.”

The priest speaks a few more words.  Bradley steps in, and Ed knows what is expected of him.  He tilts his head upwards, closing his eyes.

Their lips press together, a mockery of a tender kiss.  It’s all Ed can feel for a moment—the sickly warmth of Bradley’s mouth, the bristling and uncomfortable sensation of his mustache.  Ed steels himself until Bradley pulls away to the sound of polite clapping.

It is finished.

—

Bradley keeps him close again, a situation that hasn’t taken Ed even a day to become unsurprised when it happens.

Ed grits his teeth and forces a smile through the congratulations and well-wishing, holding onto his husband’s arm with one hand and a wine goblet with another.  He sees the glances, after his fourth or fifth, and avoids them.  Yes, he has been drinking since midmorning; of course they have begun to notice—notice without surprise, if the sidelong looks he is receiving is any indication.  Let them think he is ashamed.  It’s not the drink that’s sent him into this detached, nearly dreamlike state.

Bradley doesn’t miss it, either.  How could he?  But he allows Ed the indulgence, it appears, the satisfaction of knowing what he has driven Ed to do greater than forcing him to endure it all sober.

And Ed lets him enjoy it, looks away from the smirk on Bradley’s face every time Ed passes a server and pauses for a new glass.  He lets him think that Ed is crumbling already, drawing into himself to endure whatever he must.  It makes Bradley so very obviously cocky, so much so that he misses that Ed only takes drinks from Xerxesian servants, and the subtle hand signal he provides to them when he does.

When Ed hears the announcement for dinner, he nearly sags with relief—and the realization that he has not eaten in twenty-four hours.  He isn’t quite sure how he’s managed to keep going like this, but the adrenaline must have something to do with it.

The food at least means that he and Bradley have something to do besides get constant reminders of their union.  And it is good, the only good thing about this day.  That and the fact that by now the Xerxesian servants have caught onto his signal to only serve him wine that is incredibly watered down.

Of course, everyone else clearly thinks that he is long drunk.

Ed plays it well, and it is helped by the fact that he is very slightly so, with the lack of food prior to this.  Not that he says much, but he knows enough to make it clear even without words.  Eggplant soup is so easily spilled.  Silverware so easily dropped, especially as uncommon it is to Xerxesian dishes.  Sauces splattered.  And manners, of course, even those instilled in royalty, are so easily forgotten.

Near the end of the dinner course, a saffron and onion lamb dish, Bradley’s hand closes around Ed’s left wrist as he reaches for his empty goblet.

“You’ve had enough,” he murmurs in Ed’s ear, tightening his grip to be painful again.

Still, Ed has been drunk before, and he knows exactly what drunk Ed would say.  “What?” he hisses back, slurring the word.  “Now you stop me?  Y’know—fuckin’ well that  I—”

“Would drink yourself into oblivion before tonight if I allowed it?” Bradley murmurs back, pleasant as ever.  “Of course.  A king of Xerxes should have more fight in him than that, don’t you think?”

Ed can’t restrain his gasp of fury.  That Bradley would think he would just give up like that—but better for him, he knows.  Bradley’s flaw, from what he can tell, seems to be his hubris.  Ed has not missed the intelligence, cruel as it is, in that eye, but nor has he missed the way that he will dismiss those he considers beneath it.  (Maybe, Ed can’t help but think, with a sick feeling in his gut, he can see it because until now they have not been dissimilar, but the thought of having to share anything more than what he already does with Bradley makes him want to vomit.)

But even more, hearing that he is not only expected to fight, but that Bradley is looking forward to it…

“You’re a bastard,” Ed whispers hoarsely, and the shiver that runs down his back is real.

“You see,” Bradley continues conversationally, releasing Ed’s wrist and waving over a servant for some water.  “That’s what I hear about you.  Fascinating rumors, actually.  Is it true what they say, that your mother was not only a commoner, but part Amestrian as well?  In Amestris, that would have made her no better than a mongrel.  Bad blood and all.  Certainly not quality enough for a monarch to marry her, even after she has borne him sons.  But then, I suppose it would be a step up for your Xerxesian bloodline, wouldn’t it?”

Ed stares at his food, frozen, his fork in a white-knuckled grip as he debates plunging it into Bradley’s good eye.  If it doesn’t kill him, Al won’t be executed, right?  Oh, but even though he knows that he can’t, not now, he will one day absolutely relish taking his revenge.

“Then why,” Ed manages to grit out, for a moment not caring about his drunk façade, “did you marry me?”

He had meant to say “are you marrying,” but the “did” slips out, and for a moment a wave of nausea at the reminder that they were bound together, trapped in this union, washes over him.

And then he sees the cruel glint in Bradley’s eye and he knows the answer, above all of the politics and the strategy.  The pretty one.  That is all Ed is to him.

“To purify your bloodline, of course.  It’s fortunate that you already have that Amestrian heritage; it makes you an acceptable candidate for marriage into our bloodline.”

The thought of what Bradley wanted from Ed—the thought of a child, his child, taking the name “King” and ruling in Bradley’s footsteps, leaves him cold.

“I can’t even begin to express how honored I am at that,” Ed spits venomously, gripping his fork even more tightly.

Bradley simply pats Ed on the cheek.  “You don’t need to, not now.  Just think about how you’ll do so later this evening.”

He turns back and returns to his food, leaving Ed trying to slow his breathing, which has begun hitching in panic.  He lifts his eyes to see if anyone at the table is watching.

Al is, has barely touched his food, and he straightens slightly when he sees that Ed is watching as well.  The massive blonde man guarding him, however, places a hand on his shoulder, drawing Al’s attention away.

And then Ed catches sight of another pair of eyes on him.

They’re black, he realizes with a jolt, staring at him out of a face that is—that would be quite handsome if Ed didn’t hate it so much.  With a nasty, petty vindictiveness, he thought for a moment that Roy Mustang certainly didn’t get his looks from his father.

He stares back defiantly; if this is an attempt to revel in Ed’s misery, Mustang won’t get the satisfaction.  But there is none in his gaze, none of the smugness or triumph.  Simply… consideration.

Ed swallows, mouth suddenly dry, another shiver running through him.  He looks away quickly and returns to his food.

—

He nearly vomits up his dinner when Bradley announces that there will be dancing after dinner.  There has been enough time to digest the food, of course, but Ed knows very well who he will be dancing with for the majority of, if not the entire, time.  The thought of that hand resting steadily on his waist, of his own on Bradley’s shoulder, leaves him unable to rise from his seat until Bradley physically pulls him up.

As they head to the celebration hall, Ed catches a glimpse of golden hair and eyes.  For a wild moment, he thinks it is Almas, but when he snaps to attention and turns his head, his stomach flips.

For a brief moment, Ed is relieved—thrilled—elated to see that Dolcetto has survived the invasion.  He knows the number of casualties, has seen too many familiar, dead faces to have hoped that anyone he knows might have survived.  But a good amount of the nobility had not been at the palace, and now it seems that those who live close to it are beginning to trickle in.  To see the face of his friend, now, here, is a breath of fresh air that he had dared not hope for.

And then he sees Dolcetto’s expression of shock, fury, betrayal, and it all comes crashing down.

He turns, he tries, he does, opens his mouth, explanation springing to his lips before his brain can remind him that he and Al are dead if Ed says a word, but Dolcetto is too far from them anyway, and the way his face twists leaves Ed with no illusions as to how his explanations (his excuses) will be received.

But Ed has to focus on the rare positives: there are Xerxesian nobles still alive, nobility that will accept Amestris’s rule far less easily and do so with far more subtlety.  Those not born and raised in the courts would revolt immediately if they knew the truth (and Ed couldn’t help but feel that they had the right of it).  Nobility, raised in games and intrigue and without the power of numbers, would bide their time before acting.

And neither would they believe the things said about Van Hohenheim, not in a million years.  They knew him, personally, and knew of his kindness and generosity as a ruler.  The more common folk, those in the city and the surrounding area and through the countryside, they had heard stories, yes, but they hadn’t known Ed’s father.

And Ed has used his influence not only to besmirch his father’s name, drag it through the mud, but deceive the very people he should be serving.

He can’t find Dolcetto again, and perhaps it’s for the best—though he does catch a couple more familiar faces, those whose land is only a few hours from Persepolis, or who own manors within or just outside the city.  All of them, when they see Ed on Bradley’s arm, share some variation of Dolcetto’s expression.

He was my friend, Ed thinks numbly, staring sightlessly ahead.  He was my friend, and now he thinks I’m a traitor.  Sees me as the traitor that I am.

Still, knowing that there are still Xerxesians alive to fight for, knowing that his people have not yet been truly crushed, rekindles a resolve in him.  He will make this right, somehow, someday, and though he does not expect or even want their forgiveness, he will not abandon these people to tyranny.

These thoughts give him substance with which to steel himself as they enter the celebration hall.

Though Ed is more familiar with Xerxesian music, Amestrian culture has made its way into Xerxesian enough that he can at least recognize some of the foreign music, and he apparently knows enough not to completely trip over his feet when Bradley begins to lead.  Still, Ed’s strong suit has never been dancing, and his husband has little to no interest in allowing Ed comfort and a great interest in making him appear incompetent—either that, or he’s a worse dancer than Ed is.  Either way, he still feels like a newborn antelope tripping over its too-long legs.  An apt comparison, really, given how easy prey he apparently is, as well.

Though the intimacy and closeness of the dancing is as uncomfortable and unpleasant as expected, Bradley apparently feels no need to say anything during the act.  Not that Ed is surprised—he knows very well that it’s about showing off his prize, his power, his victory.

He finds himself passed off to others for dances as well, high-powered older generals, if Ed’s reading of the Amestrian military insignias are correct.  The cheerful glimmering in Bradley’s smiling eye as he murmurs an, “Enjoy” to Hakuro leaves Ed’s skin crawling.

And then he feels a gloved hand on his good wrist, pulling him away from his partner, and when he turns, the hand sliding into position around his waist and taking his other.  Unlike Ed’s previous partners, Mustang does not twist his right arm out cruelly, instead making concessions on his own end to avoid hurting Ed as much as possible.

And, Ed is displeased to note, the man is an excellent dancer.

He isn’t sure why the fact that this is the easiest time he’s been having since the day began has him so angry.

“I thought this would be the best opportunity for us to speak without being completely overshadowed.”

Roy Mustang will likely always shock Ed with how deep his voice is, especially in comparison to Bradley’s, especially when his face suggests otherwise.  It settles somewhere in the pit of Ed’s stomach and refuses to leave.

It needles at Ed, and he decides—well, let’s give him something he won’t expect.

“There’s somethin’ you have to say to me?” Ed asks, letting hapless confusion bleed into his voice.  “Can’t imagine what it might be—but if you wanna talk, I’ll listen.”

Mustang lets a shoulder rise and fall, his disinterest apparent.  “Only that I wish we could have met under better circumstances.”

The bastard.  Like he gives a fuck about their circumstances—but Ed manages to school his expression before giving too much away.  “And what did you have in mind?”

Mustang shakes his head, glancing over Ed’s shoulder, as if imagining something else.  Ed’s mind involuntarily takes him back to earlier that morning, the sight of Mustang directing his soldiers—directing them after the battle.  And before that—

“A proper alliance, perhaps,” he murmurs.  “This entire mess is so unfortunate.  I’m sure you’d agree.”

Ed’s first instinct is to snarl at the man for mocking him, but—still, there’s something in his expression that stops him, a hesitation in his gut that, for once, freezes his mouth.  The images won’t leave him, of the Amestrian soldier releasing the terrified servant—

Of Mustang’s arm, outstretched as if to stop Bradley’s blade, right before it ran Hohenheim through.

“Why did you do what you did?” he blurts out.  He’s never really been good at playing the idiot anyway; he’ll have to learn, he knows that, but right now, he needs to know.  He could be asking anything, with the vagueness, but both of them know what Ed means.

“My father is a proponent of wasteful bloodshed,” Mustang replies quietly.  “I am not.  Hohenheim had already surrendered.  It was a murder for bloodlust and posturing.  It was a pointless death, one that cost us a valuable skillset—his logistics, and the ability to keep his people fed through the summer’s drought.  You know as well as I do that he has never been warlike, and we had you and your brother as hostages.  His approval would have sealed the merge even further.”

Ed closes his eyes briefly against the sudden stab of pain in his chest.  This man had been covered in his father’s blood hours ago; Ed should hate him regardless of the reason—especially as the notion that Mustang had been trying to stop Bradley was utterly laughable.  But his mouth, much as the rest of him, is a traitor.

“Tactical, then,” he replies lightly.  “You’ve brought plenty of servants, however.  Ours weren’t tactically useful.  So why bother sparing them?

Mustang shrugs again.  “They’re servants.  They weren’t involved in any of this.  They shouldn’t be punished.”  Then, just as lightly, he continues, “Or, the more tactically sound option; they’re someone’s brother, or sister, or mother or daughter, and those people are the ones with the motivation to join a rebellion if we kill them.”

Ed lifted his gaze to Mustang’s, a bitter smile on his lips.  “But only when there is a tactically sound reason, correct?”

“I have to sell it to Bradley somehow, Ed.”  Mustang’s reply is curt, much blunter than Ed has expected.  “He doesn’t understand basic human compassion."

Though this only confirms Ed’s suspicions, to hear it stated so frankly doesn’t help; in fact, knowing what he can expect only worsens the dread building in his gut.  And to hear Mustang, of all people, saying this about Bradley…

What game was this man playing, and did he really expect Ed to be stupid enough to sympathize?

Ed at least knows the one thing that Mustang will not be expecting.  He straightens, lifting his chin, and says loftily, “Are you speaking ill of my husband, sir?  I realize that you are his son, but he has shown us great compassion in these trying times.”

Mustang, to his credit, conceals his surprise past the initial flicker in his eyes, only visible to someone watching him as intently as Ed has been.  “Of course not.”  His voice carries a heavy note of dry, sarcastic humor.  “I would never dare speak ill.  Pointing out tactical flaws is simply my job as the head of the military.”

The song stops, and they are close enough to the edge of the dance floor that Mustang leads them off.  Ed grabs a goblet of wine immediately; this one isn’t watered down, but he’s sober enough that it won’t matter.

“I only wished,” Mustang continues quietly, and if Ed didn’t know better, he would have said that there is sympathy in his voice, “to tell you that what you did was very brave, and that I wish you hadn’t had to.”

The words hit Ed with an uncomfortable punch of dizziness to the gut.  Brave?  No—he had been a coward, submitting to Bradley like that with barely a fight at all.  The notion that someone—anyone—might believe in him leaves him feeling as if he has been cut adrift suddenly, such a foreign concept as it is.

But this is a trick.  It has to be.  Especially coming from this man, the war criminal of Ishval, scourge of Amestris.  He has an inkling of an idea of what this might be about, and Ed will not let him and his disgusting father win.

“You flatter me,” Ed responds with a false smile, drinking more of the wine—the goblet is half-empty already.  “But I am glad to hear that is all you meant.”  He swirls the wine, then lifts his eyes to meet Mustang’s, innocuously throwing out his challenge.  “I would hate to hear that you were trying to drive a rift between us in an attempt to have me reconsider my duty of bearing him an heir.”

That gets Ed a response, a visible expression of surprise, and he congratulates himself for a moment before Mustang smooths his face into a neutral expression.  “Of course not.  Duty, after all.”

“I’m sure you are as honored to carry out your duties as I am to carry out mine.”  Ed smiles politely.  “Enjoy the party, Your Highness.”

“Of course, Majesty.”  There is nothing in the address to combat Ed’s goading.

He knows he needs to step away from Mustang, needs to leave before overplaying his hand, and so he does, slipping away into the crowd.  Still, Ed has to admit curiosity.  What will Mustang do, now that he quite likely thinks Ed to be some emptyheaded, social climbing trollop, willing to sell out his country for more power?  Will it drive a rift between Mustang and Bradley, perhaps?  Or has Ed just put him in the way of a very dangerous enemy?

Or, least likely of all, is Mustang entirely sincere?

Ed pushes away those thoughts.  Impossible.

—

Ed is idling on the edges of the crowd, just beginning to think that he might be able to take a precious breather, when a fist grabs the front of Ed’s shirt, yanking him forward, sending watered-down wine spilling all over the floor and Ed’s clothing.  For one terrible moment, Ed flashes back to the scene in the throne room, Hohenheim’s blood soaking him to the skin, but then the fist shoves Ed backwards, through a cluster of startled and frightened people, until he slams against the wall, pain arcing through his shoulder, goblet clattering to the ground, forgotten.

“She’s dead, you traitorous bastard!”

Ed’s head spins—perhaps he shouldn’t have drank that undiluted wine—as the hand grabs his shirt again, pressing him backwards.  It’s nearly as big as his head, and he gasps and coughs, trying to catch his breath and his wits before looking upwards.

“Yasmin is dead!”

The familiar face resolves into existence, and Ed’s heart plummets.

Darius is nearly twice Ed’s height and three times as big around; until now, his presence has always been an asset to the royal family rather than a threat.

But if his fiancée has been killed, then Ed has made himself a very dangerous enemy.

“What happened, Darius?” Ed asks urgently, keeping his voice low.  He nearly grabs the hand pinning him to the wall, but instead lifts his own, as well as his eyes, fixing them on Darius’s.

Ed realizes immediately how Darius got so close to him: Darius’s family has Ishvalan blood.  It isn’t immediately apparent, however; though his skin still resembles the darker Xerxesian shade, the dark hair and eyes bear a much closer resemblance to the invaders than to the natives.

“What happened?” Darius spits.  “I’ll tell you what happened!  She was slaughtered like an animal.  Butchered alongside my brothers!”

Ed’s mouth goes dry: he has known, known it all along, that the cost of this invasion has been extreme.  But to hear that an entire family, Darius’s three older brothers and the heiress he was to marry, has been snuffed out in an entire night, just adds one more shade of horror to the tragedy.

“I’m—shit, I’m sorry, I am, I didn’t know, I swear to—“

“Didn’t know?” Darius roars, and Ed can see the crowd backing away from this madman, the Amestrian guards taking notice and making their way over.  “You called them here, you blood traitor!  You’re the reason—you gave us to them on a golden platter!  We all knew that letting an Amestrian into the royal family was a mistake, and you’ve proved it!”

Ed—

Ed can’t even defend himself.

He can’t even defend his mother, shoulder up when she is taking the blame for his actions, his mistakes.  He should speak up, he knows he should, but his mouth is frozen, and all he can do is watch Darius cock a fist with a numb detachment.  After all, it’s only the beginning of what he deserves.

The blow never comes.

“Is there a problem?”

Ed closes his eyes in near-despair of the sound of that deep voice.  Of course it would be him who stopped things; of course he would ruin everything.  He can’t even let Ed take the beating that would, at least a small amount, ease the sickening guilt inside of him.

“You,” Darius breathes, eyes wide with rage as he glares down at Mustang.

“Me,” Mustang replies coolly, his eyes chips of ice as he stares back unflinchingly.  He tightens his grip, and Ed can see Darius recognize the sigil on the back of his glove.  One word, and his arm will be torched to a crisp—and only his arm, if he is lucky.  “I am certain that your quarrel with His Majesty is a misunderstanding.  If you leave now, we can avoid the scene, as the guards will want to escort you out either way.”

Darius doesn’t move, though his grip loosens, and Ed pulls himself out of it, stepping to the side and straightening.  He knows the one thing that will get through to Darius—after all, it’s the thing that is holding Ed captive now.

“You’re now lord of your lands, right?” Ed breaks in, voice steadier than it should be under these circumstances.  But, then again, the circumstances are so extraordinary that none of the usual rules apply.  “They have passed to you, with your brother’s death.  You have my sympathy for that, you do, but your people need you now.”

He can see Darius straighten at that, his fast-burning rage turning to slow-cooking hatred.  But he can also see that Darius knows he is right.

“Yes, Majesty.”  He spits the word like the filthy utterance it is.

“Then see to them,” Ed says quietly, not wanting any of the Amestrian audience to hear, if he can help it.  “See to it that you retain those claims, that you are able to protect them from anything that might come.  See to it that you act as their lord.”

“As if you would know anything about that,” Darius growls, but he steps backwards, yanking his wrist away from Mustang.  He turns, and the crowd wastes no time in clearing a path for his massive form.

“He’s going to be trouble,” Ed hears Mustang murmur, and he glances over quickly to see those black eyes watching Darius’s retreating shape.  “More than I expected.”

Before Ed can ask Mustang what the hell he means, a familiar hand grips his shoulder.

“My, what trouble you seem to be attracting today,” Bradley breaks in cheerfully.  “I think it’s best you spend the rest of the evening by my side, don’t you?”

—

Though Ed delays as long as he can, the evening inevitably begins to wane.

Bradley doesn’t even have to say a word directly to him; a few words of farewell to some of his nobles is the only warning that Ed gets before they’re heading for the doors, passing through them, and walking into the hall.

They say no words as they pass doors and turn corners.  They have no need.  Both know what is coming.  Both know what Bradley has won.

Still, Ed’s heart has lodged somewhere in the vicinity of his throat when they reach what used to be Hohenheim’s rooms.

Of course it makes sense, that it will happen here.  The king’s rooms, the finest in all of Persepolis, and now Ed is the king.  As is his husband.  But seeing the bed laid out with fresh sheets, candles lit, room cleared of any personalization, leaves a small part of him screaming that this can’t be happening; it’s impossible; it can’t be.

He takes a deep breath and thinks of the faces of the Xerxesians who had gathered before the palace today.  He closes his eyes and thinks of Almas.

He takes another deep breath, holds it, then opens his eyes, staring at Bradley.

“Take off your clothes.”

The order carries no more threat than the friendliest of Bradley’s comments, but it makes no difference.  Ed’s fingers fumble at the buttons, tremble—at the pain from his shoulder, he tells himself.  The shirt falls to the floor, followed by the trousers, and, unbidden, he pulls the tie from his hair, letting it fall around his naked shoulders.

“Good,” Bradley breathes, eye glinting as it takes in the sight.  He reaches out, and Ed tenses, but he only runs a thumb down Ed’s cheek.  Still, though the movement is slow and gentle, it’s as if something slimy is worming its way through Ed’s stomach at the merest touch.

He leans in, and Ed steels himself for the press of lips against his. This time, however, it lingers, pressing harder, and then Ed nearly chokes on the tongue forcing its way past Ed’s lips, as if the sliminess has moved to Ed’s mouth instead. He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, wondering if he’s going to vomit, and he can only take so much before he wrenches away, gasping.

“Lie on the bed,” Bradley orders, shrugging off his own jacket, and Ed turns, crawling onto the sheets and lying back, head resting on one of the pillows as he watches Bradley gets closer.

For the briefest of moments, he isn’t sure how he is going to handle what to come, but he steels himself immediately on the heels of those thoughts.  He is a prince of Xerxes.  He will make this right, and he will not be broken.

Edris is dead.  But Edward is not, and he knows one thing above all else.

Bradley should never have created him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once again apologize for the wait—IRL is kicking my ass—and at this point I will offer a blanket apology for any time in the future a chapter takes for fucking ever.
> 
> (on the bright side, I already have more of the next chapter written, so the wait shouldn't be two damn months next time!)
> 
> P.S. If you've been wanting to do a reread, you might want to do so now; some characters from much earlier show up, and due to update times they may have been forgotten. Again, I'm so sorry.

_Win_ —

_I don’t know what you’ve heard, but we’re alive, if just barely. Not sure if that’s a good thing or not. If you’ve listened to what people are saying, you might be able to figure out why. I swear it’s not like it sounds, but we don’t have many options right now._

_No matter what you might hear, please, try not to think too badly of us. And if you do end up somehow involved, you must remember to go along with it, no matter what. It’s not worth the consequences if you fight back._

_Please, stay safe, and give Granny my love._

—Encoded letter, delivered from the palace to Persepolis City proper the evening after the invasion.

—

_Edward, Edward, Edward._

Ed repeats the name to himself like a mantra, staring intently at the wall in front of him. It had filled him with revulsion the first time he had heard it, and every subsequent time—but none more than when his husband whispered it into his ear, that and much more besides, the past three nights that they have spent together.

And now—now, it still angers him, but it’s different, he tells himself. Edris was a foreign prince, a dangerous enemy, one to be broken. And now Edward is that broken prince, gone from sovereign royalty to a pet with no teeth, expected to dance on command.

He takes a deep breath. He might not be worthy to carry the name of Edris, not anymore, but he will embrace Edward, will show them that this puppet is vicious when its strings are cut.

If he ever gets out of this fucking _room._

He snarls, beginning to pace the length of the royal suite for the umpteenth time, his rage growing even more with each step. He doesn’t know what Bradley has told them all since their wedding night—probably that he was so deeply stricken with grief that he couldn’t come out in public, and required the comforting of his husband.

Ed paces back around to the door of the suite again, reaching out to yank on the handle. Maybe it’s open this time.

When his labor proves fruitless, he lets out an angry yell and gives the door a vicious kick. Not that he’s expecting anything different than the last hundred times he had done so, but it made him feel better. A little. Even if it hurt like fuck—the first morning, after Ed had woken up late, aching, and alone, he had discovered that most clothes and _all_ shoes had been taken from the room. The only things left are the heinous Amestrian clothes—suspiciously all in his size—and a collection of hairties.

Not even big enough to hang himself with, he thinks wryly.

He storms back over in the other direction, wondering how many times he’ll have to make this trip before he wears a hole in the ground, escaping to the floor below. The window is out; the magically sealed glass, once a luxury, is now a prison, and Bradley has the motherfucking key.

While Ed understands the wisdom behind it, right now he would rather be at risk for assassination.

Maybe if he hangs himself with the bedsheets.

He stops by the platter on which Bradley had brought his breakfast. He hadn’t even allowed it to be brought by a servant. Three days. Three _fucking_ days, of not seeing another human being, of knowing what would happen every time the doorknob turned, of being useless and incapable—

“ _Fuck!_ ” Ed screams, grabbing a teacup and dashing it against the window. The sun continues to twinkle in, oblivious to the prisoner’s plight.

He sits down on the bed, hard, clutching his head in his hands, strands of hair escaping his haphazard ponytail. He can do it, grab one of the shattered pieces of glass and slice Bradley’s throat with it, unlock the window, say an assassin had gotten in. And it’s tempting, too.

But no one would believe it.

He stands again, intending to start his pacing again, but he barely makes it a few steps before helplessness overcomes him. He slumps back against the wall, sliding down, rubbing idly at his injured arm as he stares dully at the ground in front of him—

The key sounds in the lock to the suite.

Ed immediately shoots upright. It’s early, _too_ early, given the position of the sun—it can’t be long past noon. Bradley doesn’t come back this early, not yet—

Unless he’s here for a mid-afternoon quick fuck. Ed’s stomach turns at the thought.

He presses back up against the wall, the shards of glass digging into Ed’s bare feet, working their way past the callouses to draw blood, at least as far as Ed could tell. He ground his heel further against the floor, the sharp pain consuming his attention and distracting him for a few blissful moments before his husband steps in.

He’s as innocuous as ever, smiling benignly as his eye takes in the scene in front of him. Ed swallows, hard, and lifts his chin, making it _very_ clear that he will not be treated like a piece of meat, no matter how much Bradley might think of him as such.

He has yet to give up his dignity, and he will not do so now.

But Bradley merely shrugs, leaving Ed feeling a bit like he’s tried to lean against a curtain again, and steps into the room, unbuckling his sword belt and hanging it on the wall.

And, of course, shows Ed how much of a threat he considers him. Bastard.

“Did you make a mess while I was gone, Edward?” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the shattered cup. When Ed looks down, he sees that a small pool of blood is spreading around his foot.

He lifts his head back up, meeting Bradley’s eye with a cold look. “You left it on the windowsill. It shattered.”

Bradley turns to Hohen—to the large mahogany desk, rummaging through the drawers. “I did no such thing. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then your memory must be failing you in your advanced years.”

Bradley turns his head to shoot Ed a sharp look. “Sit on the bed, Edward.”

Ed’s heart settles somewhere in his throat, but he limps over, leaving footprints as he does so, and levers himself onto the bed.

Instead of pushing Ed down onto it, however, Bradley sits next to him. Though Ed tenses when Bradley takes his thigh, all he does is use it to turn Ed so that he is sitting sideways, the injured foot lifted over Bradley’s lap. When Ed cranes his head, he can see that Bradley is holding a pair of tweezers.

“I’ve told you, time and time again, to be more careful.”

Ed lets out a snort at that—while Bradley isn’t lying, most of the injuries that warranted that warning had been inflicted _deliberately_ by his husband dearest. He winces slightly as the tweezers digs into his heel, but Bradley doesn’t seem to be intentionally hurting him. That’s new.

Bradley tugs the shard of glass from Ed’s heel, dropping it into the saucer on the bedside table. Ed wonders idly if that’s Bradley’s idea of a filling breakfast, bloody glass. The image fits, somehow.

The silence stretches on as Bradley continues to remove the glass from Ed’s foot, one shard at a time.  With every moment that passes, Ed tenses more, waiting for the inevitable pain, a nail shoved into one of the open cuts, perhaps, or a shard of glass sliced across the arch of his foot.  But the only thing that comes is gentleness, and it leaves every nerve warning in Ed’s body screaming. It’s a mockery—a _parody_ —of domestic affection, with gentle fingers and slow, careful movements.

At the moment, Ed has a hard time coming up with something more horrifying.

Bradley finishes, and for a moment, Ed braces himself for what might be coming next, but the man merely pulls out a handkerchief, mopping up the blood and then tying it around Ed’s foot.  He turns to watch Ed, and Ed stares defiantly back as the silence stretches on.

“Where are your manners?” Bradley finally sighs.

Ed scoffs, then looks away.  “Thank you,” he grits out, though the tone of his voice is far more appropriate to telling Bradley exactly where he could shove those thanks.

“You’re welcome.”  Arms slide around him from behind, and in a moment of panic, Ed tries to grip the comforter to keep himself from being lifted.  But it’s a futile defense, and within a few moments, he finds himself lying sideways on the bed, facing the wall, Bradley’s arms wrapped around him as he holds Ed from behind.  They feel like irons, his arms, and his mere presence leaves Ed feeling as if he is being suffocated, drowned in the overwhelming stench of what Ed swore had to be pure evil.

It suddenly clicks, what is happening.

They’re _cuddling._

Ed had sold himself short, earlier.  Now this, this is infinitely more horrifying.  He can feel the bile threaten to spill out of his mouth, can feel the crawling sensation of breath on the back of his neck, the sliminess that hasn’t left him since Bradley had first touched him but becomes infinitely worse with every passing bit of contact.

“So is there any actual point to this?” he snaps after a few moments, when his discomfort and dislike finally overwhelm his dread.

“Comforting you,” is the simple answer, and Ed closes his eyes.  “Can’t I be concerned that my beloved husband has yet to leave his bed, let alone his rooms, after learning of his father’s horrible betrayal?  Our people certainly are.  You should try not to worry them.”

“Yeah, well fuck—”  Ed cuts off with a choke as Bradley squeezes, constricting the air from his lungs.  Ed instinctively tries to writhe away, but that tightens Bradley’s grip further, leaving his chest aching, dark spots dancing before his eyes.  After several long moments, Ed dissolves into desperate wheezing, and Bradley lets go.

“What was that?”

Ed lies there, dizzy and panting, as he tries to gather his thoughts.  They race through possibilities, and the option they settle on, though unpalatable, might actually have a chance of working.

“You’re right,” he murmurs.  “I’ve secluded myself from them, and my duties.”  As if he can scrub away the words, his actions, from his thoughts, he repeats _bullshit, bullshit, bullshit_ to himself, over and over.  “As king, I should meet with them, show them that I am all right.”

It isn’t subtle, and he knows that it isn’t; as such, he’s completely shocked when Bradley says, “I think you’re right.”

Ed’s suspicions are instantly on high alert, but Bradley releases Ed, withdrawing his arms, and rolling out of the bed. When Ed turns, Bradley is holding up shoes.

“But your arm and foot are both hurt. Let me help you put them on.”

—

Much as he wishes he weren’t listening, Ed is starting to realize that keeping track of Bradley’s “updates,” biased as they were, could at least provide him a small amount of insight into the current political atmosphere and, if luck were kind, perhaps leave him with an advantage, too.

“And I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that the restructuring of the nobility is going well.”  Bradley’s voice carries through the hall, and Ed can see golden-haired heads turning slightly to hear the words.  He grits his teeth, and though he can’t _see_ the looks directed at his back, he can feel them, the glares, the mistrust, the suspicion.

“You don’t say,” Ed manages to grit out, and no threat in the world can wipe the murderous glare in his eyes.  Ideally, that will count for _something._

“I do!  You wouldn’t believe how much the throne has been neglecting some of its most loyal supporters, simply because of the little issue of their bloodline.  Ironic, given your _own_ mixed bloodline.  Not that I imagine you personally had anything to do with it.  Still, I’m doing as we’ve discussed, and we should be able to correct the injustices suffered by these part-Amestrian families.  I am so _very_ glad our alliance has granted us this opportunity.”

Ed’s eyes flash murder, and he sends up a silent prayer that Bradley can’t see it.  “Discussed?”  He raises his voice to Bradley’s volume; two can play at this game.  “I don’t recall _any_ discussion, recently.  You’ve told me that you didn’t want me to trouble myself, after my father’s death.”  Ed sighs dramatically, and he can see that he’s caught the attention of at least a few ears.  “And _I_ have continuously told _you_ that I am perfectly capable of taking on my duties once again.  Is that not why I’m here?”

The silence stretches beside him, and Ed allows himself a small smirk at the wait.  A small victory it might be, but at this point, he’ll take anything he can get.

He knows that Bradley can’t be missing the occasional glances they’re getting now, as they walk down the halls.  Ed certainly isn’t; although growing up a prince, in court, had so often been mired in caution over potential interpretations of relatively minor actions, never has he been in this sort of situation.  The slightest word, glance, _breath_ , can be enough to tip the massively unstable scales in his direction, and a second can do just the opposite—and doom them all.  Still, he has to pray that his experience has prepared him enough for this: after all, if he can train himself out of liberal use of the word “fuck” around diplomats, he can make it through this alive.

And one of those glances is jarringly familiar: dark eyes, not gold, almost Xingese, narrowed thoughtfully.  Though Mustang’s face is partially obscured and he looks for all the world like he is simply enjoying casual conversation with the Xerxesian woman next to him, Ed is far too hyperalert to miss the incisive look leveled in his direction.  Though Ed’s first expectation is one of condescension or irritation, instead, Mustang seems to be watching him with a measure of… respect.  Even amusement.  And a small, tiny gleam in his eyes that might—

“You’re absolutely right,” Bradley finally breaks in, voice smooth.  “In fact, I think it’s an excellent idea.  It’s just about time to conclude the trials of the final two Xerxesian traitors involved in the invasion.  We’ve already executed the ringleaders, but I have no doubt that you would have quite an interest in participating in what remains, correct, Edward?”

The smirk slips immediately off Ed’s face, and his stomach drops so low it’s a wonder that he doesn’t fucking trip on it.

—

Ed doesn’t recognize the Vazir that oversees their outfitting.  While at first he’s bitterly surprised to see that a Vazir has not only survived Bradley’s undoubted purge but is also still performing important duties, he realizes, very quickly, that the man is not only new to his position, but clearly mostly Amestrian.  Taking advantage of Bradley’s _restructuring_ , then.

The robes are required, of course, as are the crowns. While the former are at least slightly familiar—beautiful, light, draping cloth in golds and reds—the crowns are ugly things. Though they match the red and gold, the similarities end there. Instead of the delicate, intricate wired elegance of the Xerxesian crowns Hohenheim—and Trisha—had used to wear, the Amestrian crowns were all thickly wrought, golden gilded with red velvet poofing up in unflattering places.

The Vazir spins some tale about the ensemble being the perfect union of Xerxesian and Amestrian; Ed wonders if his neck is going to collapse once the crown is settled. He supposes there is one thing to be grateful for: if their crowns are this bad, what would their robes have looked like?

The moment Ed walks into the throne room, every nerve goes on high alert—even higher than usual.  The coppery tang of blood has grown stronger since his last visit, leaves his stomach churning and his nostrils flaring.  He can see heads turn, as they have been all morning; the glares of the Xerxesians and the smirks of the Amestrians are nothing new.

What _is_ new is the addition of the second teak throne, right next to the one where Hohenheim used to sit as he presided over court.  Ed can feel himself go a little white at the sight, and his attempt to conceal his limp fails as he stumbles: someone has _clearly_ spilled the information to Bradley about Xerxesian tradition.  And though Ed can’t know for sure, he has absolutely no doubt that Bradley is fully aware that the last person who sat in that second throne—

The last person who sat in that second throne was Ed’s mother.

He had thought he was prepared for anything that Bradley could have thrown at him.  Had even steeled himself for the possibility of seeing a familiar face across the room, Dolcetto or Darius or even Al or Winry—he wouldn’t put it past that fucker to have gathered information on his completely unpolitical friendships, as well.  But seeing his mother’s throne, removed from storage and set out for him…  Every time Ed thought that Bradley couldn’t stoop any lower, there it fucking was.

And there _Ed_ was, thinking about his mother, thinking about Trisha’s gentle smile and the way she would hold him and tell him that everything was going to be okay.  The way she called him “my brave little man,” how she told him that he had gifts, intelligence, talents, a _future_ , and made him promise that he would always use it to take care of the ones he loved.  Of how proud she had been when he and Al had taken their places as Xerxes’s princes, her as its queen, and the hope she had had for what they could do for the country.

How terribly, terribly disappointed she would be to see him now.

His heart lodges in his throat and he tightens his grip on Bradley’s arm; the bastard probably notices, can probably see his stricken expression, but for the moment, Ed doesn’t care, can’t care, can’t think anything other than, _I’m so sorry, mom_.

His thoughts have carried him all the way there, and the throne sits in front of him.  He turns his head to the side, and when his eyes meet Bradley’s, he knows that there is nothing but cold fury there.

Bradley simply gestures for him to take a seat.

Ed’s knees creak as he lowers himself onto the cushioned wood, expression tight and pale.  He refuses to turn his head to acknowledge Bradley, instead settling himself upright, barely perched on the edge of the seat, elbows lightly touching the armrests.  He knows very well that he is even more of an object of interest than Bradley, despite not sitting on the larger throne, but he will _not_ provide a spectacle.

The Vazir steps over once they are seated, the royal scepter in one hand and the matching footstool in the other. Ed isn’t surprised to see Bradley accept the scepter—it is always to be held in the right hand, and Ed’s is out of commission—but the footstool is another matter. Though the days where the country truly believed that the King of Xerxes was of divine heritage and his feet could not touch the ground were long over, the stool still plays a ceremonial purpose, and when the Vazir places it for Bradley to rest his feet, Ed _seethes._

He tries to contain himself, tries to wait and see if he will be provided one as well, but Bradley merely glances over Ed before settling in.

He has to grit his teeth and scoot backwards further in the chair. Though the inability of his feet to reach the ground when he sat in the throne had always dismayed Ed, right now it is a blessing, if a smarting one.

Booted foots sound on the steps to the dais.

Ed turns his head slowly— _gods_ , that crown is heavy—and his heart leaps twice-over: once at the sudden sight of Mustang’s form, so close it almost fills his vision, and again at the shaped wood in his hands. The carvings still have dust in them and the gilding is unpolished, but the stool is there.

It’s pathetic, he knows, the surge of relief that he feels, and he is _horrified_ to realize that his throat is swelling up, just slightly, but when Mustang kneels to place the stool at Ed’s feet with a murmured, “Your Majesty,” Ed breathes a little easier.

“You ordered the throne brought out, but it seems the servants forgot all of it, father,” Mustang murmurs, loud enough for only Ed and Bradley to hear. “I am only glad I was able to make it to you two in time.”

“Indeed.” Bradley keeps his voice neutral, but by now Ed knows that tone well enough to know that it’s not exactly thrilled, to say the least.

He allows himself a small smirk.

Mustang doesn’t look at Ed once the entire exchange, and as Ed lifts his feet to place them on the stool, the man steps back and off to the side, resuming his place.

Ed allows himself to breathe for several moments as his lungs slowly begin to unfreeze.

And then the names are called.

“Roksana Javan and Jesper Gilani.”

Ed can hear the clink of chains before he sees the prisoners—not that it does him much good to see them. He hadn’t known Roksana well, but he could never forget the face of a person with whom he had attempted to fight off the Amestrian army—of a person who had saved his life. In the heat of the moment, she had proved a skilled and loyal ally, fighting at Ed’s back for the majority of the morning until they had been separated, when Ed had finally spotted his father and—

He had thought that she had died in the fighting. When he had looked across that room, after accepting Bradley’s proposal, it had seemed like _no_ Xerxesian guards had survived.

But his despair had clouded his sight, had given up as lost those who might have still been saved. Numbly, he wonders if there have been other trials that he could have swayed, other fates that he could have saved.

It speaks volumes, then, that Ed would not have recognized her without the announcement. He can see that it’s her now, shoulder-length hair tangled and dirty. Ed is reminded of the royal beehives, the way that honeycombs darken after egg laying, and his heart clenches, trying to shove his thoughts away from the words _used up._ Burnt wheat. He’ll go with burnt wheat.

Scratches and cuts cover her face, what look like injuries from abrasive contact with a wall or floor. But she holds herself tall, golden eyes glaring fiercely in Bradley’s direction.

Jesper, though—Ed _knows_ Jesper. He has been a loyal servant to both Ed and Al for years, coordinating their staff, kept up their rooms, even kept Ed from presenting as a disaster on too many occasions to count. He is far more than a servant: he is a _friend._

But Ed can barely recognize him under the bruising and scabs.

It’s ten times worse than Roksana; while she seems to have been roughly handled, Jesper has been undeniably and thoroughly _beaten._ One eye, purple, is almost swollen shut, and his lip has been split in three places. The arms that show past his tattered sleeves are mottled green, brown, purple, blue, and the nasty black of severe bruising. Though the cuts across his forehead and eyebrows and cheeks are not actively bleeding, the dark crusting around them is enough to tell Ed exactly how often they do reopen. And of course, to complete the picture of dejected misery, he walks with a severe limp, barely managing to stay upright.

Ed listens in mute horror as the Vazir steps forward and speaks.

“The court of Their Majesties, highest judges before the gods, now resumes in the matter of the sentencing of Roksana Javan and Jesper Gilani, for the charge of attempted kidnapping, attempted assassination of a monarch, espionage, and high treason. Majesties.”

As the Vazir steps away and Roksana and Jesper step into his place, Jesper looks up, straight at Ed. Ed can see the swollen face _transform_ , the golden eyes widen, and an expression of utter hope that lights up his face the same way it did when Ed had stormed back into his rooms to announce his first diplomatic triumph, years ago, thanks to Jesper’s coaching.

Oh, gods. He thinks that Ed can do something. Ed wishes he had something to return to him other than sheer horror.

Roksana, however, still glares defiance at Bradley, not moving her eyes from him as he begins to speak.

“Court has been accepted.” He pauses, likely for dramatic effect. “The overwhelming evidence presented to us in the past few days has left us with no choice—“

“Hold.”

Ed’s own voice rings out even more clearly. _He_ has been raised here, knows precisely how to pitch his voice to carry in this room, and he delights in using this advantage to outperform Bradley. As well, he knows his rights, being appointed as divine judge, and he will _not_ let this farce happen.

Jesper’s eyes shine even brighter, and Ed tries to ignore the sinking of his stomach, the terror of letting him down.

“While I understand that the court has seen the trials of these two accused, I submit that I have not been permitted to be present for the past several days.” He can see a few eyes narrow at his wording, but simply continues as if nothing is out of the ordinary. “I know both accused and have no doubt that there must be some sort of mistake. Roksana has risked her life to protect me, and Jesper has faithfully served my family for years. I recommend that we reconsider these charges in an attempt to uncover the truth.”

Soft murmurs spread throughout the room, but there is a bit of an excited undercurrent, though on many of the faces he can glimpse mockery or skepticism. Ed is absolutely able to legally challenge Bradley, and his words carry the same weight. He knows that he’ll suffer quite significantly for it later, but right now, he doesn’t care.

“I disagree.” There is, of course, the other side of the coin, where Bradley has just as much right as Ed. “But you have been, as you say, absent, so we may review.”

Much as Ed would like to interrupt Bradley and tell him exactly where he could stick his “review,” that won’t win him any favors with _anyone,_ and especially won’t help Roksana or Jesper.

“Roksana was witnessed by dozens of individuals, myself included, attempting to take _your_ life. You likely don’t remember, as you were in a daze after the betrayal of your father, but as I had my men escort you to treatment and safety, she lunged after you, sword drawn, trying to take your head.”

“I’m sure she was just—“

“This was _after_ the fighting had ended, so she had no justifiable reason to attack anyone. Furthermore, she was also seen fighting along the last of the Xingese before it did.”

Ed risks a glance at Roksana, who is now looking at him. The pleading in her eyes is clear: _it isn’t true._ He nods slightly, does his back to return a look that says, _I believe you_ , before he turned back to Bradley, who was speaking again.

“As for Jesper, he was caught attempting to kidnap your brother, the evening of the Xingese attack.”

Ed’s mind flashes back to the orders he so thoughtlessly barked out the night of the invasion, the demand to find Al and ensure that he did not come to harm. This is _his_ fault, just like so much else, but he will not give it up as lost.

“That’s ridiculous,” Ed snaps.  “He was trying to get Al to safety—”

“From what danger?”  Bradley and Ed are glaring at each other now, and though technically, the debate between the two seated monarchs is permitted and even traditional, the veiled hostility in their tones is anything but. “Because he fought against _our_ soldiers, and one of the Xingese fought alongside him.”

Ed barely manages to contain a snort. “For any Xerxesian, the situation that night wasn’t exactly the _clearest_ —”

“While I understand that is the case, the fact of the matter—”

“ _Do not interrupt me._ ”

Ed uses his ability to pitch his voice in this room to its _maximum_ advantage, and the entire room falls silent. His eyes have not left Bradley’s, and though Bradley is quite skilled at concealment, Ed is certain that he has genuinely shocked him.

“In a court of two appointed royal judges, _either_ judge must be allowed to finish speaking before anything else is said. While I understand that your unfamiliarity with our laws stems from the fact that you are a foreigner by birth, they must be obeyed by all, even the highest authority in the land.”

Though Ed doesn’t directly emphasize the word “foreigner,” he places enough subtle stress on the word; no one in that room isn’t thinking about that fact now. There is still not a sound to be heard from the audience, and Ed continues.

“Jesper has never been anything but loyal to the royal family, and much of this evidence seems circumstantial. I believe a revisiting of the charges is in order.”

He can see nods when he gives the crowd a quick glance-over to gauge their mood, and many—if not most—of his doubters now watch Ed with interest. His gaze catches Mustang’s eyes for the first time that day, and unlike earlier, they’re practically _burning_ holes into Ed. For a split second that is as wild as his momentarily terrified heart, he thinks that Mustang is furious, but when he finally manages to catch both his breath and his wits, he realizes that there is something else there, something that almost looks like pride, or triumph.

Ed quickly shoves those thoughts away with a, _Well of course an ambitious bastard like that would be glad to see his father’s authority undermined._

“While I am sure that your people appreciate your loyalty to your household,” Bradley continues smoothly, the exaggerated silence before his speech an obvious and slightly passive-aggressive concession to Ed’s earlier demand, the fact remains that Jesper Gilani has confessed to this crime. So unless you are accusing Alphonse of being in league with a self-proclaimed traitor—a matter we can _certainly_ revisit, if you wish—there is no possible way he could have gone willingly.”

Ed had been prepared for nearly anything. Nearly—except for that. And he should have been, he berates himself fiercely, looking over at Jesper, the desperate expression, the brutalization, and remembers the limp. _Of course he confessed, you idiot._

“Confessions gained through torture are _illegal_ ,” Ed grits out through his teeth, trying to send Jesper the same reassurance he had tried to send Roksana.

“Torture?” If anyone in that room believed Bradley, Ed would be shocked. “He sustained these injuries on his capture, when he tried to abscond with your brother.”

Ed’s eyes blaze, and he is about to open his mouth and finally, _finally_ give Bradley a piece of his fucking mind—

“Majesties.”

The word disorients him for a moment; it isn’t Bradley, too high-pitched for that. It isn’t anyone he immediately recognizes, either, though it does belong to a woman…

His eyes fall on Roksana, who has stepped forward, chin raised.

“Jesper Gilani and I absolutely refute these accusations, and hold that we have been unjustly treated in our trial. As it has become clear to us that we will find no justice in this court, as the one person who still attempts to speak for us has been silenced, we demand trial by combat.”

For a moment, the room is so quiet that you could have heard grains of sand scatter across the floor.

And then the noise level _explodes._

Though trial by combat is certainly legal, it is a right that the accused rarely invoke—Ed has only seen it once, as a child, soon after his father had married his mother and he and Al had been adopted as the royal heirs. Though the first accused had been killed, the second had defeated his combatant—only to die two weeks later of a suspected poisoning. To call it is usually seen as a grave insult to Xerxes, its royalty, its _sovereignty._ It means that the accused has no faith that a just verdict will be rendered by the system, and justice is a system that Xerxesians see as sacred, almost hallowed. Its courts are fabled for their integrity, and that integrity had played a significant role in keeping Xerxes standing for thousands of years.

So it is no wonder that the room is in uproar.

Ed, himself, hasn’t felt this elated in what feels like years. Roksana is _brilliant_ , and he could kiss her for it—nothing she could have done, no protests she could have made, no evidence she could have presented, would have undermined Bradley more in this moment.

And it is Bradley that is being undermined; there is no doubt about that. Roksana, in two sentences, has implied her loyalty to the crown—the true crown—and included Ed while excluding Bradley, all while ensuring that Ed will not be implicated if her gamble fails and she _is_ branded a traitor, at the end of it all. She has also made it very blatant that she has no faith in Bradley to uphold the strict moral codes required of a Xerxesian leader in a manner that he cannot punish her for.

Not in any way she hasn’t already been punished, anyway.

And he’s seen her fight. He _knows_ that she is skilled, and that she has a very good chance of saving not only her own life, but Jesper’s life as well.

Ed says nothing in response. He doesn’t need to. As Bradley is the one who opened court, he is the current primary judge, and the one who will—who _must_ —accept this challenge and appoint someone to fight her. With luck, he won’t be willing to risk someone too skilled for the job, and Roksana will win their freedom.

Though, it might be Mustang, Ed realizes with an unpleasant jolt of the stomach—only, he tells himself, because he doesn’t know if her skills match up to his infamous ones. Ed would certainly feel no loss if the smarmy, smug, insufferable bastard ended his life as a smear on Roksana’s blade.

He straightens, and when he meets Roksana’s eyes, he hopes that she can see the pride in his own. From her expression, one of determination and bravery, but also hope, she does.

“Very well,” Bradley finally concedes slowly, and when Ed turns his head, he can see that the single eye is narrowed. “The court accepts. Have two swords brought,” he orders, and a servant bows and scurries out of the room, returning very quickly and making his way towards Roksana.

Bradley turns his head as well, his narrowed eye meeting Ed’s, and they glare at each other for a few moments. Neither of them like to lose, but neither of them will concede, either. And so it goes. Bradley exhales, then opens his mouth to speak.

“Edward, take your sword."


	5. Chapter 5

The words don’t actually process at first, not really. His mind seems to have shut itself off, gone numb, hid itself away from the reality of the situation and what it means, some sort of an attempt to protect him. Because—because he can’t accept it. He can’t accept that he is about to fight against a woman who has saved his life, in more ways than one, and fight to the death.

How is it, he wonders dazedly, that he can have come so close to triumph and then have it snatched away?  The laws of the land, moments ago his ally in the fight against Bradley, has now turned and bitten him on the heel, dragging them both down into defeat.  Because, bound as Bradley was to accept Roksana’s challenge, bound also was whoever Bradley demanded fight her to obey, unquestioning. And Roksana—Roksana would know that just as well.

For a brief, wild moment, he considers throwing the match, letting her kill him—that would make everything all right, right? It’s as much as he deserves—but from the stricken look on her face that he slowly realizes matches his own, he isn’t sure if Roksana will be able to lift her sword against Ed, let alone actually fight him.

“Edward?”

He’s still sitting in his throne, frozen, disbelieving, and he knows that he has to move, has to stand, has to obey, but his feet refuse to move.

"Majesty?"

Someone is beside him, holding something out to him—it's a hilt of a sword. Not Ed's sword, but it's sturdy enough, fine Xerxesian quality. Ed has used one similar for most of his life. There is a hand on his back, then, and Bradley must have nodded his assent because no one would have dared touch a royal judge without permission. He feels fingers working at the knot on his shoulder, and his arm twinge in pain as the sling is removed. It's the pain that finally manages to pull him out of his stupor enough to reach his left hand out and grab the hilt.

He rolls his shoulders experimentally. The right still hurts, of course, from where Bradley had nearly sliced it off during the invasion, but he doesn't need it to fight, only to balance. And while the pain—from his arm and otherwise—will prove distracting during the trial, he can't be in any worse shape than Roksana, especially not with the hints of gauntness in her cheeks, her cracked lips that tells him that her time in the prisons has left her malnourished. An Amestrian custom, it seemed: though Xerxesian punishments for crimes could be inventively creative and even cruel, no prisoner was ever treated as guilty until proven otherwise.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, stepping forward and off the dais. Though he knows so very much that it is a terrible idea, his eyes sweep the crowd, equally afraid of finding hatred for his actions or excitement to see him mete out punishment.

But his eyes land on one individual, and he wants to yell at the frustration of it all, tell his mind _no, you don't want to know what he thinks of this,_ but Mustang's already enigmatic approach to this entire situation draws him in yet again. He's still difficult to read, of course, but Ed thinks that he might be picking up on some things, and if Mustang _did_ have any kind of tell that might reveal that he was holding back fury or frustration, those pressed lips and slightly tensed jaw might be it.

He yanks his eyes away, focusing on the ground in front of him as he limps forward. Right, that stupid, fucked glass injury. It might just be enough to put them on an equal playing field: though Roksana is a skilled soldier, Ed has been royally trained for most of his life, since the day he set foot inside the palace. They have both killed people, as well; though he hadn't known her before the Amestrian invasion, she had seemed willing enough to take necessary lives for her country when they had fought together. Ed, too, can do so when he absolutely needs to. He hates it, of course, hates the situations that drive him to kill, even if it _is_ from necessity, but as a prince, and especially as the crown prince, someone who is expected to lead men into battle should the need arise, he doesn't ever have a choice. Before this, though, it has mostly been criminals he and others are trying to capture, those who had already made up their minds to kill him. As royalty, he is also no stranger to assassination attempts, and sometimes those necessitate personally putting the person down as well.

But those had always been as a last resort. He had always gone in with intention to _capture,_ and kill only as necessary. Not only was this borderline murder, but it was an ally, as well.

He can see no way out of this.

Ed finally stands in front of Roksana, and she holds her sword as much like it is a poisonous viper as Ed does. The panic in her eyes twists his stomach, and as she backs to the center of the room, to allow them space, he tries, yet again, to think of an escape for both of them.

"Ready." Bradley's voice rings out, and they both step in, lifting their swords to cross. Bradley begins to speak again after a significant pause, and Ed would bet his sword right now that a Vazir has had to step in and provide him with the ceremonial speech given before trial by combat, but he doesn't listen—and neither, it appears, does Roksana.

"I'm sorry," she whispers urgently. "I'm so sorry, Majesty; I didn't realize you were going to be here, that he would—"

"This isn't your fault." Ed keeps his voice just as quiet, but there is a fierceness in his tone as he pleads with Roksana to believe him. "None of this is. I—" He shakes his head. "I don't want to kill you. This is—"

"You must." Her eyes blaze fiercely for a moment, and Ed's stomach drops yet again. "You cannot die here. Bradley is trying to quiet those of us who know the truth, to paint you as complicit. He thinks Jesper and I are the last, so—"

"Begin!"

And now all eyes are on them. Ed and Roksana both know that any more conversation is impossible. In the best scenario, it would seem suspicious. In the worst, they would actually be overheard.

Ed knows he needs to move, make this look genuine, or at least not like a standstill, but his arm refuses. He stares into Roksana's eyes, as wide as his, but he can't—

And then the tip of her sword moves, thrusting towards him, and instinct takes over.

He smacks it away—it isn't a serious attack, more of an opening, though it could have killed if he hadn't moved at all. He swallows, parrying away another thrust, this time at his side, and then a swing at his head. She's leaving herself open, and it's painfully obvious, but he can't bring himself to take advantage of it.

It's only after she steps in for another attack and he is forced to lock their swords together to prevent it that he finally takes the offensive. He doesn't truly try at first, not really, swinging enough to keep her from being able to attack, but not enough to truly break through her guard. She is trying now, it seems, unable to help herself, and Ed realizes: he _is_ the better fighter. He can end this now, if he so chooses; a quick attack from underneath, or perhaps a feint—he has always been incredibly skilled at fooling his opponents, and he is also used to fighting those taller than him. She seems to be as well, which means that since Ed is shorter, she is also having difficulty on that front.

He steps up the aggression, though again, not enough to strike a killing blow. He can see her face, frantic, desperate, _terrified._ He can't do this, can't let her die like this—

She catches him off-guard with a parry, sends him stumbling backwards, leaving his side open. She sees it and takes it, and it's instinct instead of thought that has him twisting to catch the attack, knocking her sword out of the way, and scoring a deep gash up her thigh.

Roksana cries out as her leg gives way, and the tip of his sword is at her throat before either of them can blink. Her blood spreads across the tile, staining the cracks red, and Ed wonders if he will ever escape that sight.

"Finish it," she grits out, and though there is fury in her eyes, it isn't at him. "Finish it, finish all of this, and remember that I have always served true."

He knows that he must, knows that this will continue, one way or the other, until one of them is dead. Continuing with her injured like this would only lead to more injuries, which would cross the line from murder to cruelty _and_ murder.

But, yet again, his arm will not move. He can’t kill, not cold-blooded like this, not someone whose only crime was her loyalty to him, something that could not be broken even with her death at his hands. Not even with the crowd yelling, Bradley’s voice calling out an order, with the entire court watching.

He shakes his head slowly, eyes wide, face tight.

Her own eyes widen, then she seems to relax, and he can see a hint of sadness and even resignation in them. And—gratitude, though he’s not sure what for.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and then she moves.

She rolls as if to get away, lifts her sword as if to continue the attack, but it isn’t far enough, not to get out of Ed’s range. He moves his sword along with her to keep her pinned in place, but she levers herself against the floor with her free hand and when she tries to lunge up—

Steel pierces Roksana’s throat, and blood wells around it before streaming down the sides of her neck in rivers. She gasps, an awful, croaking, gargling noise as she reaches up with a limp hand to try to clutch the sword buried in her neck.

Ed yanks it away and staggers backwards, usually dark face pale with horror as he stares at the hole his sword has just left. The muscles around it contract obscenely as she tries to draw breath, the blood pooling around her head to join that of her thigh injury. There’s another awful coughing noise, and for one last time, her eyes meet Ed’s.

And then she stills, her sword falling from limp fingers.

The room explodes into noise, and it isn’t until then that he realizes that everything had gone deathly quiet in Roksana’s final moments. He hopes that it was out of respect—the audience doesn’t seem to be cheering, not the Xerxesians, and the Amestrians mostly seem to merely look uncomfortable, out of their depth in a situation where they do not belong, and they realize that.

Ed isn’t sure how he stays standing. The fight had been short, and Ed was barely out of breath, and he hadn’t received a single injury. But—but he has just killed Roksana. Roksana, who saved his life without a second thought, within moments of meeting him. Roksana, who had commanded what might have been the last set of guards to the throne room, to a battle where they were hopelessly outnumbered, in an attempt to save Ed and his family. Roksana, who he had promoted in the heat of battle for her service.

He had wanted to be there, after they had won, at the ceremony to make her promotion official. He had wanted to celebrate her bravery. Now she is dead.

Two servants step forward to cover her body, wrapping it and then lifting it to carry her out of the room.

Ed watches after them dully, mind so exhausted and numb at this point that he had completely forgotten what happens next.

“Jesper Gilani, step forward.”

Ed closes his eyes, letting out a moan of despair. _This_ … this will be cruelty, no matter how it is played.

He opens his eyes and turns back. Someone has given Jesper Roksana’s sword, and though Ed doesn’t need to see his awkward grip to know that he has never held a weapon in his life, it certainly drives the point home. He is even paler than Ed feels, and a soldier—one of the Amestrians that makes up Bradley’s guard, he suddenly notes with some suspicion—pushes him forward. He barely seems able to stagger out onto the floor, his limp even more noticeable than before, and Ed’s heart twist. Jesper must be terrified, and he won’t look at Ed. Even more than Roksana, Ed isn’t sure if he will be able to—no. Ed swallows. He _won’t_ be able to do this. Not to Jesper. Not to someone so _defenseless._

“Ready.”

No, no, _no._ This can’t be happening so quickly—Ed still needs more _time._ He’s killed Roksana already, hasn’t he? Can’t he have a break, between fighting the two? Maybe if he puts it off, he can arrange some sort of escape—

“I’m sorry too, Edris.”

Jesper has finally looked up, and though he normally would have fainted before addressing royalty without a title, he seems to know that it’s what Ed needs right now. “I didn’t get your brother out—please, I don’t blame you.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Jesper,” Ed gasps, but Jesper is shaking his head.

“I know.”

“Begin!”

Before Ed can ask what it is that he means, Bradley’s voice cries the order, and Jesper staggers forward, swinging clumsily. It’s pathetically obvious now that he has no idea what he is doing, and Ed could have taken his head off with ease. But he simply steps back, watching Jesper reel for a moment, not sure what to—

Jesper swings again, lunging forward. Ed blocks the swing easily, but Jesper catches their hilts together by some miracle of luck. It’s a simple move to twist his sword to the side and angle it forward, using that and his body as leverage to simply push Jesper away.

Only, instead of stepping back, Jesper screams and collapses to the ground.

“ _Jesper!_ ”

Ed forgets for a moment his ceremonial position, forgets that he is a royal judge there to mete out punishment, and he casts away his sword and drops to his knees, reaching out to lift Jesper to his chest.

“M-majesty,” Jesper chokes out, and for a moment, Ed is utterly bewildered. He didn’t strike Jesper, he thought, and even if he had, it wouldn’t have been enough to—

And then he feels the warmth seeping into his lower stomach.

He moves his hand down Jesper’s chest, feeling the knots and swelling from his torture, but when it reaches his abdomen—

The blood soaks through his fingers in moments, and as he frantically tries to apply pressure, he realizes that a stab wound this deep, this severe, isn’t from the torture. It’s fresh, and from right _before_ the fight.

“Want—he wants to—make you…”   Jesper closes his eyes and shivers. “Trying to… you have support. Doesn’t like…”

“Shh,” Ed whispers, now trying to wad up Jesper’s and his own shirt to stop the bleeding, but he’s seen kidney wounds before, and this is a nasty one. “I’ll try—you don’t deserve this, Jesper—”

Jesper takes Ed’s wrist, his grip terrifyingly weak, and Ed’s hands still.

“Mustang…” he manages around bloody lips.

Jesper’s grip slackens, and though Ed keeps trying to stop the blood flow, for the second time in ten minutes, he is forced to watch as he can do nothing.

Ed kneels until Jespers’ blood stops completely, then stands, numbness in his heart.

He looks down at the sword he has thrown to the side, then back up to Bradley, face expressionless. He works his mouth slowly, gathering what saliva he can from his dry mouth. He knows he is a sight, clothes soaked with Jesper’s blood—and some of his own, he realizes, as he seems to have reopened the stitches on his arm—face pale, chin raised defiantly.

Not looking away, eyes fixed on his husband, he spits very visibly, very deliberately on the sword, then turns and walks from the room, the crowds parting silently before him.


	6. Chapter 6

Ed knows that Bradley is looking for him. He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care what the consequences of his actions will be, not right now, and doesn’t care if they will be made worse by hiding. It isn’t as if he is trying to escape the palace’s grounds—no, he _does_ know that the consequences for that would be something he cared about—or even get up to anything dissenting. No, he just wants to be alone at the moment, away from the throngs of Xerxesians and Amestrians alike who are witnessing his disgrace. Wants to have a moment of fresh air without Bradley hovering over him, as he is apparently considered so much of a threat that Bradley will not even entrust him to any of his other men. Wants to have a single moment of not feeling entirely useless and like the traitor so many think he is.

After a few hours of trying, however, he still hasn't managed the latter.

But he can hide as long as he needs; though initially he had been slightly concerned when hearing the shouts of Amestrian soldiers in the gardens, he had grown up learning how to hide from even native Xerxesians. These useless westerners are no match for him. Now, if they had found Ed's old tutor Izumi, it might have been a fair game.

It's been more than a few hours, it seems; Ed's stomach is idly complaining over not having been fed for lunch, and sunset has come and gone, leaving Ed in the early dusk of winter. He is cold, too—though by Amestrian standards he is sure that this is nothing more than a faint chill, his desert-raised bones complain regardless—but he shoves that over in the same place he keeps his hunger. After all, he can't focus on that right now. Can't focus on _anything_ right now other than the numbness, retreat into it, or...

He feels his eyes begin to sting, just slightly, but he forces them away with a savage, _no, **fuck**_ _this._ He takes a deep, ragged breath, the suddenness searing his lungs, but it keeps the tears at bay.

He lifts his hands to his face, clutching his cheeks for a moment as his knees hit the grass. Another ragged breath rips through him, and he grips his hands so tightly the nails dig into his palms. He shakes his head desperately, not sure what he’s denying, but he wants it gone, wants _everything_ gone, leaving him in peace.

But they keep coursing through his mind, and he can’t force them away. The faces of Roksana and Jesper, condemned as traitors and remembered as such in death; of all the dead Xerxesians, guards and servants and nobility alike. A _savage_ spike of guilt and horror for the face of his father, a peaceful and wise man with a memory slandered, and terror for his brother, an imperiled hostage. He _rages_ for his country, every citizen of Xerxes, now under the thumb of one of the most evil men Ed has ever known.

And, most selfishly, he agonizes over himself, a prisoner in bloodied king's clothing, for what Bradley has done to him, taken from him, forced him to do. He couldn't protect them, couldn't protect _any_ of them, even when he should have been able to. And Xerxes—especially Xerxes. It is a king's duty to keep his people safe, and Ed has handed them over to Bradley on a platter like a particularly tempting selection of delicacies.

 _No,_ a voice rings through his head, sharp and impatient. He nearly smiles; it sounds very much like Izumi, in fact. _Don't you start that, Ed. Edward. You've come this far. Don't you break down now._

He forces his eyes open, forces a shuddering breath into his lungs.

_Get your shit together—or are you a prissy little princeling, good for nothing but eating and sipping fine wine?_

Even if he is a puppet king, he is still a king, and still a king of Xerxes.

He braces his hands on the ground, and the pain jolts through his arm. Good. Let it wake him up. With another shaky breath, he stands, closing his eyes, then opening them again, narrowing them so as to see better in the darkness. He lifts his sleeve to his face, swiping angrily with that godawful Amestrian shirt and checking it subtly, making sure that he has not shed a tear. He doesn’t deserve to.

With the return of his composure also comes the realization that he needs to go back. But gods, if he sees that smug, one-eyed face, he isn't sure he'll be able to resist punching it in the face.

Well, maybe if they're in private...

"Brother!"

Ed jumps nearly a foot into the air—and then his face splits into a grin. The weight from earlier remains settled on his heart, but it doesn't seem to burden him quite as much, not with that voice he hasn't heard in three days.

"Al!" he cries out, pushing himself to his feet and bolting in the direction of the voice. He is so distracted by the thought that he might see his brother again—and by the obnoxiousness of the limp that he still can't shake—that he doesn't realize he might be running into a trap until he skids to a stop right before turning a corner.

It would be like Bradley, Ed thinks frantically, to pull Al out, to force him to tell their secret hiding spots to find Ed and drag him back to the palace— _to Bradley's bed_ —by his hair. But then again, Al _is_ clever, cleverer than Ed in so many ways and innocuous-looking as well, and if Bradley had tried, Ed has no doubt that Al would have the man running around in circles and gnawing on his own leg long before he realizes that he's been played—if he ever does.

He takes a breath, steeling himself to step around the corner—

And is promptly nearly knocked over by a tall, golden-haired form barreling into him.

"Thank the gods, brother," Al whispers fiercely, squeezing Ed tightly. Ed ignores the twinge in his shoulder as he reaches around Al's waist, squeezing back, face buried in his chest, heedless of the drying blood.

"Al, shit, _shit,_ you're—you're here, I can't believe..." He swallows, not wanting to pull away. "Are you okay? Why're you here? Did Bradley..."

"He doesn't know we've found you, not yet."

Ed _does_ tear away from Al at the third voice, rougher than Al's but not as deep as Mustang's, and pulls back, glaring at the third man who dwarfs the both of them.

"Who are you?" Ed snaps, reaching out to push Al behind him. He’s seen the man around, obviously Amestrian, short blond hair brushed back, a large mustache on his face and thin-framed glasses settled on his nose.

“Your brother’s bodyguard.”

“Yeah, well, since my brother clearly doesn’t need any bodyguarding from me, why don’t you just stick that wad of hair on your lip up your—“

“Brother!” Al’s voice is far too disapproving for Ed’s taste, not when he’s defending an Amestrian. “Don’t be rude to Heinkel!”

Ed narrows his eyes at the man, and either that or something on Al’s face behind him—he chooses to believe the former—has the man nodding, stepping away and disappearing back around the corner of the hedges.

When Ed hears his footsteps recede, he lets out a breath of relief and turns back to Al.

“Heinkel’s a nice guy, you know,” Al reproaches. When Ed scoffs up at him, he continues. “He really is!”

“He’s Amestrian, Al. You can’t believe that any of them actually have nothing but our best interests in mind—“

“No, but plenty of their own best interests certainly don’t match up with Bradley’s!”

Ed opens his mouth, hot and ready to fight, argue about _something_ , for once prove that he’s in the right—

But this is Al. Almas, no matter what Bradley might call him, his younger brother. Al, who has been through so much, who Ed only wants to protect.

He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry.” Ed very rarely has an easy time apologizing sincerely to anyone—but if Al deserves it, he won’t hesitate. “Fuck, Al, I’m real sorry.” He swallows, hard, trying to force away the thoughts of earlier—can Al tell, that he nearly lost himself? _Shit_ , he hopes not; he knows that his younger brother is relying on him to be strong, to take care of things, and he _can’t_ know that Ed very nearly lost it in front of everyone in there. He twists, trying not to pace, but he can’t keep his hands still, and the gesticulations start. “For everything. For arguing, for letting this happen, for not getting you out, for _Jesper_ —“

Al’s hands dart out to grab Ed’s, stilling them, and he pulls Ed back in. Somehow, Ed’s breathing seems a little easier. “Don’t be, brother,” he says softly. “This isn’t your fault. I know that you take the world on your shoulders, but not this time. Please.”

Ed shakes his head forcefully, braid slapping back and forth. “That’s not fuckin’ _true._ It’s my _duty_ to you—to _everyone._ Xerxes is my _kingdom._ And father—“ Ed scoffs, trying to blink away the lump in his throat at the customary surge of irritation, followed by the heavier one of guilt at Ed’s actions, that nothing between them would ever have a resolution. “We didn’t agree on a lot of shit, but he always said that our first duty is to our people. He was right. And look at me now.”

He swallows, looking down at where their hands join, the slight stickiness of the blood rubbing off onto Al’s—

And freezes.

“Al,” he begins quietly. Any louder and his voice will shake. He lifts a hand, Al’s left palm wrapped in it, staring at the bandaged spot where his fourth finger used to be. The ring finger, the Amestrians call it; Ed has his own requisite jewelry, a thin golden band that he hadn’t bothered grabbing before leaving the room. “What happened?”

“It—it’s not important, brother,” Al murmurs, looking away, trying to tug his hand back. Ed doesn’t let him. “It was... I was stupid. Please leave it be.”

“Stupid—Al, don’t fucking try that with me! Was it Bradley?”

“Of course it was Bradley!” Al hisses. “He’s the source of any evil act in this palace; we both know that! But what you have to realize is that while he is, _you_ are _not!_ ”

Ed wants to argue, wants to tell him that he doesn’t _understand_ , but all he can do is stare numbly at Al’s hand, at the gap between his middle and smallest fingers, and the stain of blood from Ed’s hands.

He tugs them away. The blood on Ed’s shirt has transferred as well, and though Al certainly doesn’t look like he murdered anyone recently, it’s bloody enough that Ed’s stomach twists at the sight. What good is he, if he can’t keep Al clean from this?

Al doesn’t even seem to notice, reaching out to take Ed’s hands again, and Ed silently swears to himself, _I will do better._

“You can’t do this right now,” Al murmurs urgently. “You can’t just… walk around like you’re completely to blame over this. Father _and_ teacher taught us—sometimes you need to make a strategic retreat. That’s what this is right now. It’s just a retreat, and we’re going to use that time to fight—“

“No,” Ed cuts in sharply. “No, you are not. You’re already in enough goddamn danger as it is.”

“I’m not a child.” Though Al’s voice rarely takes on the same sharp quality, when he does use it, it always startles Ed, leaves him blinking momentarily in confusion. “And you can’t discount me, and what I can bring.” Al glances around, then steps in closer, lowering his voice. “You haven’t heard the whispers. You know the entire Amestrian army came in _after_ the guards were dead? There wasn’t any kind of Xingese strike force, we know that’s a bunch of nonsense, but there’s uneasy talk.”

Ed snorts. “Of course there’s uneasy talk. We’re being pinned like fucking butterflies—“

“Not Xerxesian. Amestrian.” Al’s voice lowers even more. “A lot of them didn’t have a choice in coming—“

“Oh, boo fuckin’ hoo—“

“Listen to me, brother! They’re afraid of something, and it’s worth trying to find out _what._ If it’s that important, we need to be aware of it, at least.”

Ed snorts, and he regrets the words that come out of his mouth as soon as his traitor tongue speaks them: “What, d’you want me to _seduce_ it out of him?”

Al goes white.

“No—no, brother, no, that’s not what I—“

Ed pulls his hand away again and lifts it. “I know. Fuck, Al.” He runs the hand through his hair—he’s fucking bloody enough already; who cares if he gets more in different places. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like… that.” He takes a deep breath, fixing his eyes on a spot in the hedge that seems to have been trimmed just a tad unevenly. “It just… I haven’t seen anyone but him for days. And… and I’m sure you can guess what that’s been like.”

Ed can see Al swallow out of the corner of his eye, can feel him squeeze Ed’s remaining hand. “I’m sorry, brother. I didn’t mean to…”

“Not your fault,” Ed breaks in gruffly, and he tries very, very hard to ignore the double standard of blaming oneself and is mostly successful. “Necessary evil.”

He looks back at Al, who has started to shift a little and finally murmurs, “If you need… something, some kind of birth control, I can help you. Bradley mostly leaves me alone. Lets me keep to my garden and greenhouse. I can work up something herbal that can help. Ellisfil and Muara both work well when mixed with Khominia…”

Ed hesitates. The thought is tempting—but the thought of what Bradley might do if he found out. It wasn’t as if herbal birth control methods were unheard of, and if Bradley found out Al was growing something local…

“Or…” Al’s voice trembles a bit, and Ed isn’t immediately sure why. “If it’s something else you need, there are other herbs. Different combinations can cause a miscarriage. You have to treat them right, though, and take precautions, or they’ll kill you—and plenty aren’t native, so he’d have no reason to suspect them.”

Ed’s eyes widen.

“Shit, Al, I’m not pregnant!” Ed yelps. _I hope._ The nasty thought flashes through Ed’s mind accompanied with brief panic, but Ed hides it well. “No! I just… if Bradley finds out that you’re growing plants that cause infertility? Shit, he’d probably decide to make you _serve his bloodline_ , too!”

Al flinches backwards at that, and the mental image makes Ed sick. But Al needs to know what they’re dealing with.

“Look, both you and I know that there’s no way we’re gonna let ourselves be stuck like this forever. We can figure something out. And I _can_ figure it out before that—before something bad happens.”

“Then you’d better hurry, brother.”

Al’s quiet voice sends a lance through Ed’s chest.

“Al. What—what happened?”

Al doesn’t look at him, and Ed’s half-tempted to grab his face and pull it back to face him. “Bradley hasn’t been idle while you’ve been locked up.”

“I know he hasn’t! But—shit, Al, what’s he done?”

“He knows that he isn’t well-liked, even with your… ‘support.’ Not that everyone—or even most people believe that you’re supporting all of this,” Al adds hurriedly, seeing the look on Ed’s face. “But they know that something’s going on, and that they can’t fight against him, not with the Amestrians in the city.”

Ed closes his eyes. “They’re in Persepolis proper? Fuck.”

“Some of them are even with the police now, from what I’ve heard. And… and he’s trying to get support from other places.”

Ed opens his eyes again, furrowing his brow…

And then it clicks.

“Merchant families. Richer ones, the part-Amestrians—fuck,” he breathes, thinking suddenly, horribly, of Winry.

“He’s offering them noble titles—there are a _lot_ of them left, brother, from the invasion. He’s offering them to the families who are pledging loyalty. We’ve probably lost a quarter of the families, completely.”

 _A quarter._ Ed’s head spins—out of hundreds of noble families, most of them going back generations, a quarter had been completely wiped out. To say nothing of the massive loss of life of those who weren’t rich enough to have someone track their deaths.

Ed reaches out, snatching Al’s hands. “Shit, Al, I wish we could go—I wish I could just grab you and get out of this palace. Hole up in the city somewhere. Rally everyone we could, then launch an assault. Take out Bradley in a blitz.”

“Brother—“

“But I can’t. I want you to know that—that I’d get you to safety myself, if I could, but I can’t. If I left, so many people here would die—and don’t even get me started on how outmatched—“

“I understand.” Al turns his hands over so his palms are touching Ed’s, then squeezes his hands. “And I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

“But—swear to god, if you get the chance to run—“

“No,” Al cuts in, eyes flashing. “Absolutely not.”

“But—“

“I said no.” Al takes a deep breath. “Even if I were heartless enough to abandon you—which I’m _not_ ; thanks, by the way—it would just come down on you and too many other people. Just the way you’re worried about. And… and there are other things, too, that people say.”

Ed can feel the hair on his spine tickling his shirt. “Other things?”

“Just…” Al glances away. “The reason that he won that night, for one—“

Both of them jump as a hand claps down on Al’s shoulder.

“They’re getting close. You two need to hurry.” Heinkel’s voice holds no hostility, only a matter-of-fact statement. “Sixty seconds. I’ll be back over there.”

Al turns back to Ed, eyes wide. “All I’m saying is—be careful, brother. Bradley has something up his sleeve, even if we don’t know what it is.”

Ed nods, but something in the way Al said…

“What do you mean, ‘we’?” he asks suspiciously.

Al swallows, glancing around, then lowers his voice and says—

“He’s not the only one with something up his sleeve.”

Ed’s eyes widen.

“Almas!” he hisses, feeling the blood rush from his face. “You had _better_ fuckin’ not be planning anything—I’ll kill you myself if you put yourself in danger!”

“Not me! Shh!” Al’s words placate Ed long enough for him to get a word in. “I’m just—there’s talk. People. People we know can… can do things. Who are willing to.”

Ed gets a sudden flash of Darius, grabbing his shirt, slamming him against the wall. Dolcetto, fury and betrayal on his face.

They might hate Ed, but… if they can stop Bradley, Ed will bear the brunt of all of that hatred and more.

“Just don’t do anything stupid. Now c’mon. We need to get back.”

Ed nods, taking a deep breath and dropping Al’s hands, following along behind him.

A few moments later, Ed can see soldiers hurrying towards them, and he hunches his shoulders and scowls, dragging his feet and falling behind as Al continues on. What he _doesn’t_ realize is that Heinkel has remained behind.

“A warning, because of your brother,” he murmurs. “He isn’t kidding when he says that Bradley has something up his sleeve. There’s a reason he’s stayed in power this long.”

Ed jerks his head to glare up at the man, to demand an explanation, but within moments he has walked off, leaving Ed to be escorted back to the palace.

—

He supposes the immediate response to his return could be more awful, but it’s the waiting and knowing that _something_ is coming that gets to him.

Bradley, apparently unconcerned with his display of defiance earlier, simply passes him off to the doctor for treatment, leaving instructions as to ensure that “he isn’t injured too badly to be presentable.” He then sweeps out, completely ignoring Ed the entire time, like one would a child throwing a tantrum.

For all that Ed can’t stand Amestrians, if he had to choose to spare one of them, it would be Doctor Marcoh.

He has to begrudgingly admit that the man makes an effort to heal what Bradley does, and never seems to pity him while doing it. He isn’t cruel, either, or intentionally oblivious; he asks what Bradley did to Ed, and where it hurts, then treats him accordingly.

Ed had asked him, once, why someone like him was working for Bradley. Anyone else, he would never have dared be so open, but something about the muted fury in his eyes whenever he saw Ed and Bradley together loosened Ed’s tongue perhaps a bit more than it should have.

Marcoh had simply shaken his head and said, “I’m still not sure if it’s damage control or punishment. Likely both.”

This time around, Ed wryly asks him if he can proclaim him “unfit for public interaction.” He gets the barest exhalation that might be slightly related to a laugh, but not even a hint of a smile. Still, it’s progress, and he _will_ eventually know success. Though Ed might have to get Bradley out of the picture before that happens. Yet another reason.

Marcoh keeps Ed as long as he can, retying his sling and sighing in a way that reminds Ed uncomfortably of his mother, but eventually pronounces him as having a clean enough bill of health and leaves him to be dressed.

It’s the uncomfortable Amestrian fare, as always, but he’ll _never_ stop bitching about it, he swears to himself before Bradley comes to pick him up.

For all that Ed is pleased to finally be out of that room, despite it not being worth what he was dragged out of there for, he is quickly growing tired of, yet again, having no apparent use except as an arm dressing. While it is better than the alternative, it isn’t by much.

And a glorious arm dressing he is. His hair is done in some complicated half-twist that needs dozens of pins to keep in place, and if he weren’t so irritated with it he would admit that there is a certain elegance to the way that the unpinned hair falls across his upper back, spreading across the bare, dark skin, the contrast striking.

That’s another thing about the Amestrian fashions that perturb him—there are random parts of clothing that seem to be deliberately cut out, such as the back of the—well, it’s too fucking short to be a proper tunic, and uncomfortably tight, though he supposes at least he’s able to wear pants with it.

And the gold and rich, blue colors flatter him, he knows it. But, more importantly, they’ll flatter Bradley’s _impeccably_ pressed uniform, and when Ed catches a glimpse of his kohl-lined eyes in a mirror, all it evokes is a jolt of nausea, mouth going dry. All that “beauty” means nothing—no, worse than nothing, he realizes, as he stares for several moments longer. There _is_ a Xerxesian flavor to the clothing, but it’s still Amestrian enough to keep them _comfortable._ Still, the Xerxesian influences are clearly not done in the interest of honoring his culture: they’re exotifying it.

His lip curls up in disgust at the realization; of course Bradley would want to show off his “tamed desert savage—but only just barely.” He supposes he’s lucky that he isn’t fitted with a collar and chain and forced to lay down at Bradley’s feet.

…Yet. The nausea from earlier worsens, and he can feel the bile threatening to rise. That’s certainly something he won’t be speaking aloud; no need to give anyone any ideas. But he knows that retribution from earlier is still somewhere in his future, and he just hopes it isn’t public.

Bradley ushers him into one of the banquet halls, and Ed doesn’t even bother asking what the celebration is for. There’s likely no real reason, truthfully, and he doesn’t want to inquire only to be told that it’s, say, in celebration of Roksana and Jesper’s deaths.

The Amestrians treat it like a second home already. The Xerxesians—not a single one that Ed recognizes looks like they aren’t under strain, but there are a few, new faces, who look just as pleased as the invaders. Ed marks their faces in his mind.

He can see a table set with food, at least, and Ed’s stomach rumbles with relief. Bradley isn’t stupid enough to keep him from food; he doesn’t want _another_ fight on his hands.

As they near the table, Ed allows himself some cautious optimism. An immediate dinner, without even having to parade around like a ribboned pony? Surely there had to be—

Ed doesn’t even have to look for the catch: it’s presented there, displayed in the middle of the table as a grandly-dressed centerpiece with an apple in its mouth.

He stops short and curls his lip at the sight of the pig. The smell of the cooked meat assaults his nose, fading even _his_ hunger, and he gives it the look he would usually reserve for his husband.

“Are you hungry?” the latter murmurs, leaning in so his mustache tickles Ed’s ear. Ed suppresses a retching noise for effect.

“No,” Ed grits out, eyes fixed on the dead animal in front of him. The Amestrians seem to have dug in without a care in the world; Ed is willing to bet his country that even the newly-ennobled Xerxesians, however, are avoiding it like they had been presented a table full of rotting rats.

Xerxesians aren’t forbidden from eating pig’s meat, not technically, but it’s considered so unclean that even those in the lower classes will often shun it unless starving. While Ed, Al, and Trisha couldn’t afford _any_ meat, back when they were in the slums and starving, before their father had found them, even then, he isn’t sure that his mother would have allowed it.

And once he had been whisked off to the palace, of course, his mother to be cared for in her last days, he and Al to be raised as _princes_ , it was nothing but the finest food, clothing, and anything else they could have imagined.

For a _monarch_ to eat pork was near sacrilege.

“Surely you must be. You haven’t eaten since this morning, have you? And after you’ve exerted yourself—“

“I’m not fuckin’ hungry!” Ed snarls before he can stop himself, and he knows he’s given away his revulsion. But there’s been too much lately, and though it seems to be a small thing, there’s only so much he can hold in.

“Don’t lie to me, Edward,” Bradley snaps, and he turns away. A servant scurries up to the table to cut him some meat—so he doesn’t have to lower himself to it, Ed guesses. The servant is giving Ed a horrified look with his golden eyes, and Ed has to look away.

Bradley comes back to Ed, gilded plate in hand, smiling benignly. As always. In truth, Ed now fears that expression more than the angriest glare.

“Please, eat. I can’t have you collapsing on me, not with how delicate your constitution has proven to be lately.” He holds the plate out, and Ed stares at the meat bitterly.

“I can’t eat this,” he says quietly. Just the thought—the thought of putting it in his mouth, the thought of people seeing him do it, the thought of _his_ people seeing him do this, makes him want to vomit what little is in his near-empty stomach.

“Don’t be rude.” Bradley’s tone is one of overexaggerated patience. “Your own cooks prepared this for you, to provide you with a kingly feast. You insult them, and you insult your people by implying that you are too good to eat what they do.” He thrusts the plate at Ed, and Ed’s good hand closes around the rim automatically.

He stares down at it, then looks coldly back up at Bradley, lifting his chin. “No.”

Bradley watches him levelly, then glances away, up over Ed’s head, lifting his hand as if to signal someone.

Ed whirls, wary, and it’s a simple matter to hone in on what it is that Bradley has signaled—what Bradley had wanting him to see.

Al’s eyes meet Ed’s for one soulwrenching moment across the room, and Ed isn’t sure if it’s only his imagination that sears the flash of the terrified expression on Al’s face across his mind. Archer—the fucker is _smirking_ , Ed can see—grabs Al’s bicep and shoves him to face the door. They leave, followed closely by a scowling Heinkel.

Ed stares after them for a moment, jaw clenched, before he looks down at the plate. He doesn’t even bother with utensils: he turns to face Bradley again, scooping up the slice of meat with his bad hand, and bites into it viciously, showing as much teeth as possible.

It wouldn’t have been an awful taste by itself—strange, yes, but Ed rarely met food he didn’t like—but the hatred turns it to ash in his mouth as he swallows every bite.

Bradley takes the plate and hands it to a servant, who is trying not to look too horrified at what he has just witnessed. When he finishes, he reaches out to idly pat Ed’s cheek. “There, did you enjoy it? You’ve never eaten pig before, have you?”

Ed stares at him intently. “You know I have.”

Bradley hesitates, then frowns slightly.

Ed can’t resist a small smirk as he finishes. “My wedding night, after all.”

Bradley’s eyes flash—Ed knows that he’s struck yet another blow, turning this humiliation into something at least slightly mutual, and he doesn’t care what the result will be—and he steps forward. Ed braces himself—

“Father. Or should I say fathers?” a deep voice drawls from behind Ed. “How are you both this evening?”

“Tired of this one,” Bradley snaps, pushing Ed away from him. It’s not forceful enough to make him stumble, which is a godsend, but he does trip a bit, which leaves him feeling like a clumsy child in front of Mustang’s… fucking perfection.

He glares up at the man, wishing not for the first time that Amestrians weren’t so unnaturally _tall._ Still, he’s quite good at looking down his nose at taller people, at least—Xerxesians tend to come along the lines of “unnaturally tall” as well.

“Take him,” Bradley says dismissively. “Take care of him for the evening.” He pauses, glancing back at the two of them as Roy’s hand settles gently on Ed’s shoulder. Ed wants to shrug it away, but he knows that his clear discomfort from the touch is keeping Bradley from coming up with something even worse. “But not the same way you’re taking care of his brother. Alphonse has been removed for this evening, by the way. He’s been sent back to the rooms you share with him, when you would like to retire to entertain yourself.” Bradley’s eyes narrow, his lips curve upwards in a smirk, and he walks away.

And Ed sees _red._

He whirls, heedless of his audience, and lunges, snarling, hands wrapping around Mustang’s throat and squeezing.

He can feel Mustang stagger, almost feels him go down, and wishes fiercely that he had. It would have given Ed more leverage to fucking _strangle_ him.

Mustang’s hands scramble for Ed’s wrists, and it’s only because Ed is exhausted and one arm is injured that Mustang manages to pry him off.

“Listen!” he hisses, coughing after he gets the word out. “I haven’t _touched_ your brother!”

“Oh _yeah?_ ” Ed snarls back, though at least he’s cognizant enough to keep his voice somewhat low. “You’re a fucking liar, Mustang, and a _murderer_ —“

“Can we talk about this _elsewhere?_ ” Mustang snaps, and without waiting for an answer, he drops Ed’s wrists and storms for one of the balconies.

Ed is getting _very_ tired of this family making him feel like he’s just had a rug yanked out from underneath him. While _not_ being dragged places is a plus, he’s really not sure what Mustang is getting at, expecting him to follow on his own. From a better person, he’d simply write it off as decent human behavior, but at this point it’s nothing but suspicious to him.

After a moment of hesitation, he follows anyway.

When he finally steps outside, Mustang glances up. He’s sketching some kind of symbol on the railing, and when Ed subtly cranes his head to get a better glance at it, he can see that its primary makeup are signs of silence and listening. Eavesdropping precautions, then. With a snort, he turns to bar the door behind him.

“What do you fucking want, Mustang?” he snaps. If it’s to _take care_ of Ed the same way Bradley says he’s been taking care of Al, Ed will tear off enough that Bradley’s family line will _certainly_ end with Mustang. He might just do it anyway.

Mustang presses a finger to the symbol, activating it with a small flicker, and he turns to face Ed, the glow from inside lighting his handsome features and Ed _hates_ it. “I haven’t touched your brother. While it’s not the wisest thing to tell you that I wish no harm upon you or your people, I think it’s about time that I—“

“No harm!” Ed barks out a noise that sounds almost like laughter. “No _harm?_ I fucking—you killed _Jesper_ , he fucking told me—I _heard_ him—!”

Mustang freezes, and then there’s a flicker of puzzlement in his eyes that… is actually _quite_ convincing, even to Ed. “Jesper? Jesper Gilani? Your manservant?”

“Mans—he was my _friend_ ,” Ed growls, eyes glinting dangerously. “And you fucking _stabbed_ him—“

“Edris, please.”

“Don’t _call_ me that!” Ed nearly shrieks, stepping forward. “You have no _right—!_ ”

Mustang—actually lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. Ed, then. Please, explain. I had nothing to do with his death.”

“He said your name,” Ed snaps, suddenly very, very tired. “He said your name before he died.”

This time, Mustang is the one who takes a sudden, surging step forward. “What else did he tell you?”

Ed would have loved to have told him to go jump off the balcony, but something— _something_ in that stance, that predatory look, like he wants to fucking _devour_ Ed, sends him hurtling back to that room, to his wedding night, to watching Bradley get closer and knowing that he can’t stop this. He can’t move, not with the way that Mustang’s black eyes pin him like a fucking butterfly, and even though every instinct in his head is screaming _runrunrunrunRUN_ his traitor feet won’t; they stay frozen in place with the rest of his hunched body as Ed’s heart pounds through his chest and he waits for the strike with his eyes wide and his mouth half-open and if he could only get the scream past his throat maybe this time someone would—

Something about it seems to draw out a shift in Mustang’s eyes, because the intense look vanishes from existence, releasing Ed from its awful thrall and allowing him to breathe again.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, taking a respectful step back as Ed—well, it’s not quite the same; it’s more trembling and less respectful and there are a couple more steps than just the one. “That was uncalled for. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Ed snaps, and his voice surprises him with how hoarse it is. Mustang simply inclines his head in acknowledgement.

“If I may explain myself. I didn’t realize what had happened until partway through the fight, but when he collapsed without you touching him, I realized. I had nothing to do with his injury.”

“Then who did?”

Mustang looks away, then back up at him tiredly. “I have no idea who, specifically. But Bradley ordered it. Of that, I have no doubt.”

“And why would he do that?” Ed snaps. “Seems like he’d rather be rid of me—“

He can’t even keep speaking with the exasperated look Mustang shoots him. He knows as well as Ed why Bradley is keeping him alive.

“—yeah, well, anyway, why would he do that?”

“To make you look bad, is what I can figure. Slaying your beloved manservant, so quickly into the fight? Plenty of people would hate you for that.”

Ed has to scoff at that. “Like they don’t already.”

“You’d be surprised,” Mustang muses, voice mild, and when Ed shoots him a sharp look, he glances away, as if he’s enjoying the sight of the carefully cultivated gardens and fountains interspersed with desert sand, all of it lit by carefully placed torches.

“Fucking whatever. So they hate me even more. They fucking should.” Ed tries to shove away the bitterness, the desperation to _change_ it. “Given everything I’ve ‘accomplished’ in my tenure—“

“Ed. You dropped to your knees and _cradled_ him when he died. And no one could have missed that elated look on your face when Roksana called for trial by combat. I’d say that his plan backfired some, wouldn’t you?”

Ed snorts and looks away. “I don’t see why it makes a difference. Or why you’re telling me this.” While the fact that Mustang has his own plans that may involve undermining his father doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, he has no idea why he seems to think _Ed_ might be a valuable ally.

“I only thought that you might appreciate an actual opportunity to be kept informed, for once, all things considered.”

Ed snorts. All things fucking considered indeed. “And why do you give a shit? Why should I even trust you? How do I know you’re not fucking _lying_ about killing Jesper? Why the fuck would he give me your _name_ if you hadn’t?”

Mustang holds his hands out, palms up, placating. “First, your more pressing matter. What reason would I have to kill him?”

Ed realizes, with a nasty jolt, that Mustang’s ring finger is missing. He is acutely aware of his own: the servants had placed the jewelry onto his finger before the banquet, a departure from the Xerxesian tradition of wearing it around the neck. Missing, just like Al’s. At least, almost—Mustang’s is clearly completely healed, an injury from quite some time ago.

“Because you Amestrians are all bloodthirsty,” Ed snaps.

“Ignoring your own mixed ancestry,” Mustang replies lightly, drawing a growl from Ed, “that would apply to my father, as well. And of the two of us, which has a vested interest in concealing what _really_ happened in the throne room that morning?”

Ed freezes, eyes wide, staring at Mustang. He’s breathing more heavily than he’d realized. “Tell me their names,” he whispers fiercely. “Of the other—everyone else he put on trial for treason.”

Mustang lists them off without preamble. With each name, Ed picks out a familiar face in his memory, and most were there, witness to his surrender.

For a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

“He’s—he’s covering his fucking tracks,” Ed chokes out. “He’s—one of these days, someone’s gonna challenge what happened, and by then—“

“You and Al are factors he can control,” Mustang interrupts smoothly, and Ed understands the wisdom—some things are best not spoken aloud, even _with_ magical protection. “Don’t put it past my father to eliminate the factors he can’t.”

Ed takes a shuddering breath, closing his eyes. “So we’re fucked.”

“If you keep talking like that and stop fighting, probably.”

Ed’s head snaps up, his eyes snap open, and he snarls, a furious, animal noise that he’s been fighting back since this entire disaster crashed into their lives. “Fuck you! The fuck d’you expect me to do, stab him in his sleep? I can’t—“

“That’s enough!” Mustang snaps, eyes wide, and Ed bites his tongue—literally—to keep from continuing. He knows Mustang is right. He’s well on his way to essentially sticking his neck out and asking Bradley to swing the axe.

“That’s not what I’m saying. The only thing I _am_ saying is don’t start to think like that. Just keep—“ Mustang breaks off, then takes a deep breath. “There are larger things in motion than either of us can stop, but giving up will only make things worse for your people.”

Ed’s eyes narrow, but Mustang is right. Fuck, he’s got to stop doing that.

“Fucking—fucking whatever. I still don’t see why you care.”

Mustang snorts softly. “Shouldn’t royalty care about their people? All of them?”

The words leave a nasty jolt through Ed’s stomach, and he crosses his arms, hunching his shoulders defensively. “Yeah, well, some people don’t seem to get that.”

“And I’m glad that you do.” Mustang pauses again, clearly hesitating, then, “I wanted to reassure you. Your brother is safe with me.” Ed scoffs, but he continues. “I thought it might be safer to have him… claimed, so to speak, or at least to all appearances. To keep anyone else from trying anything.”

“That’s disgusting,” Ed growls. “It’s fucking—“

“I know. But if you don’t believe me, then ask, the next time you talk. If you’re lucky, you might get another opportunity like earlier.”

Ed’s head snaps up. There’s no way, unless…

“He told you?”

“He trusts me.”

“That’s—“ _Fuck._ Al—what is he thinking? What the _hell_ can he be thinking? “Fuck!”

“No. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

When Ed shoots him another nasty look, Mustang sighs. “I apologize for any distress I may have caused you. But we’ve been out here long enough. May I escort you back inside?”

Ed’s head is swirling with—with far, far more than he would have ever thought possible. Confusion, primarily—his hatred for Mustang combined with a _completely_ shifted view of him to make absolutely no sense. His conflict—Al trusts him; he would have _never_ told the man otherwise, but how can he? And what seems to be Mustang’s own genuine sincerity, which is at complete odds with the child killing murderer of Ishval Ed’s always heard about.

But he accepts Mustang’s arm with a stony expression that he’s perfected over the past days, and steps inside.

It’s mostly tolerable, the rest of the evening; for once, he isn’t paraded, just ignored, and Mustang releases Ed to be escorted back to his rooms without fanfare or humiliation.

It’s only after he reaches the door that he realizes: he still doesn’t know why Jesper said Mustang’s name.


	7. Interlude: Heart of Steel 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Please note that like vazir, some other spellings of words such as karavan may be altered to reflect what I understand is a more accurate transliteration from the original Persian)

The day Winry Rockbell’s life changes forever, she wakes to the worst news of her life.

Pinako’s raps on her door jerk her out of a blissful sleep, and for a few moments, pure irritation overwhelms her.  Pinako _knows_ that she’s usually up late working on her projects, and last night was no exception.  In fact, Winry had left the commissioned order of automail, ready for etching with magic sigils, on the table downstairs.  No _way_ could she have finished that and gone to bed before dawn.

Still, she rolls halfway out of bed, shoving tangles out of her face and swiping for _some_ sort of cloth item she can shove over the top half of her body before her grandmother walks in.

“Yeah?” she croaks, once everything not under covers is decent.

Pinako steps in, and all of the half-formed complaints simmering in the back of Winry’s head evaporate away at the expression on her face.  She’s pale, paler than Winry has ever seen her, and there’s a hollow look in her eyes behind her glasses that alerts Winry to the fact that something is very, _very_ wrong.

“The palace was attacked last night.”

Winry’s heart stops.

She nearly jumps out of the bed, heads over there _right now_ to see what happened, who is hurt, who can help, but a brief burst of sense stills her.  Even if she could do anything—and she knows that the odds of a merchant, especially one who clearly looks foreign, being allowed past the gates of the palace.  Even if she is the closest friend of its princes.

“How?  What happened?”  They haven’t been slaughtered in their beds, so the city hasn’t been razed and burned, so perhaps it’s just bandits who… got past the guards?  No, that makes no sense.  “Is anyone dead?  Who was it?”

Pinako shakes her head, her expression solemn.  “I can’t tell you much of anything right now.  The city guard is on lockdown.  No one in or out of the city.  But…”  She hesitates, and swallows.  “Word says that it’s Amestris.”

Winry inhales sharply.  Pinako has an advantage: though she could never hold up under scrutiny, her grey hair still has strands of gold, her eyes an acceptable shade of brown.  But Winry… Winry, with her pale yellow hair and blue eyes, is a combination of every bit of Amestrian-seeming genetics that her family line could have thrown out.  And if she looks like an enemy…

Winry’s hands clench in her covers, and her blood runs ice cold.

—

She dresses, of course; there’s no way she’s getting back to sleep after news like that.  Her latest automail is finished, so that’s not an option for distraction, and she decides that, until she gets news that the world is actually ending, she’ll need to keep up business as usual.

Still, she doesn’t miss the glances out of the corner of her eye when people seem to think that she isn’t looking.  She squares her shoulders and ignores them, and they eventually fade mostly away.  She belongs here, and acting like it convinces them of that.  After all, she’s dressed like a Xerxesian, in loose, practical pants and a colorfully embroidered top, and more importantly, she _is_ one.

But really, how is she supposed to go about as normal when her best friends could be dead?  When “street chatter” is now nothing more than hushed whispers, when unfamiliar soldiers stand in the place of the normal city watch, skin and hair lighter than the comfortable tan and gold?

Or when merchants, men and woman and _people_ she has known for years watch her carefully, limiting their conversation to the most basic of sentences, refusing to even haggle as they practically push their wares over to her, sometimes taking quite a loss in what is clearly an attempt to get her to leave quickly, or even a fear of being caught “swindling” an Amestrian.

She can’t blame them, not when she can feel blue eyes boring into her, when she can see those blue uniforms speaking with merchant stalls further off, standing too close to the proprietors.  Nor does she miss the way that while many of the shoppers have to deal with these hovering additions to Persepolis’s law enforcement, she is not one of them.

But it stings, when Dominic turns his head, glancing at an Amestrian guard out of the corner of his eye, and pushes her work back, telling her with a gruff dismissal that he’s “not buying anything today.”

She would argue, normally, lift the automail and give him a good thwap over the head with it, but not today.  Not with the way that she’s been watched with caution every step she’s taken, and with a lump in her throat, she reaches out to take the basket back.

Until an automail arm slings around her neck.

“Please,” comes the sneering voice, though it’s cheerful at the same time.  “I was here when you promised her this job!  And let’s be honest, it’s _way_ better than what you were expecting, so pay the girl and stop being a jackass!”

Winry’s heart nearly bursts with relief as she turns to grin at Paninya.  Dominic grunts, looking… well, ashamed of himself, as Paninya undoubtedly would have said that he should be, and tugs the basket back over.  “You _do_ remember the price we agreed on?”

Winry nods; one of the Amestrian soldiers does, in fact, try sidling closer, probably some thug who’s just looking for a chance to finally exercise his power against someone who can’t fight back, but a quick glare from Winry sends him scurrying away.

When they finally reach an agreement, Winry accepts her darics, fastening the gold coins firmly in her purse, and heads away from the market as fast as humanly possible.

“You okay?” Paninya breathes, once they’re free of the oppressive atmosphere of the market.  There are still Amestrians around, their blue uniforms already something of a symbol of dread to her, but they’re not nearly as intimidating or as close as they have been.

“I…”  Winry takes a deep breath, trying to stare determinedly ahead.  It aches, now, the sting having turned into something deeper and longer-lasting.  “I never thought things could just… collapse, like this.  My family has worked for _decades_ to gain the trust of—because we’re Amestrian.”  With horror, she feels a slight stinging in her eye, and she reaches up to angrily flick away what might be a tear threatening to spill onto her cheek.  “And they _trusted_ us.  But now it’s all of a sudden… it’s all gone, Paninya, and I don’t understand.  What is going _on?_ ”

Paninya reaches out to squeeze Winry’s shoulder, and their eyes meet.  “I’m not sure.  But I’m gonna find out.”

—

Of course, Winry knows Paninya well enough by now to know that she likely won’t see her for another few days, at least.  That’s all right, though.  With the way the city criers are now trumpeting a gathering at the palace, open to all, she has other things to focus on.

They are—and she seizes onto this fact, hope in her heart—announcing that the king of Xerxes will be delivering an address.  So Hohenheim must be all right, at least.  Winry is relieved to hear it: though she had never known the man very well, she has never really understood Edris’s disdain, instead identifying more with Almas’s respect.  Though she shares less of his fondness, it’s simply due to a lack of acquaintance.  Hohenheim has done many great things for Xerxes: restabilizing trade, the economy, and culture after his father and grandfather had ousted the Amestrians; keeping the more arid areas fed and watered through droughts with brilliant scientific innovations; revolutionizing education and access to it for the population.  It doesn’t matter that Winry is Amestrian.  She has always felt safe under his rule.

Until now.

Still, if Hohenheim feels secure enough to make an appearance, Ed and Al surely have to be all right.  Besides, if a royal had died, the cry and the funeral rites would have been started long ago.

And so she follows the flood of people, taking the familiar path towards the palace.

She, of course, knows the best spots amongst the architecture from years as a child spent crawling with Ed and Al into places they shouldn’t.  Once she enters the courtyard, she makes a beeline for a particularly craggy statue and hoists herself up along the folds of its robes, finally settling back onto the marble sash as she watches the empty balcony like a falcon.

The great fountain, she notices, one of the biggest features of the courtyard (and where the three of them had been yelled at for playing in more times than strictly necessary), seems to have dried up.

Huh.  What in the—

“Citizens of Xerxes!”

Winry’s head snaps up at the herald’s magically amplified voice.

“His Royal Majesty!”

And then a golden-haired figure steps onto the balcony, flanked by two figures in blue.  She doesn’t recognize them—she doesn’t even really pay attention.  She is too busy staring at the person between them, “His Royal Majesty.”

It isn’t Hohenheim.

“It is with a heavy heart,” Ed begins, “that I must announce that I address you today, nto as your prince, but as your king.”

_What?_

Winry listens, as stunned as the rest of the audience.  They make more noise than she does, though, sounds of shock and disbelief and _anger_ enveloping her on all sides.

And then she hears it, the hiss of, “ _Traitor!_ ”

The word takes like a spark to summer-scorched wood, spreading in whispers, then murmurs.  It’s when it reaches the volume of a singular shout that she can’t take it anymore.

“You idiot!” she yells, glaring down at those around her from her perch.  She doesn’t worry about interrupting Ed’s speech; she’s too far out to be heard without the amplification spell he’s using.  But the people _around_ her hear, and heads turn to watch.

“You _really_ think he’s choosing to say this?  Look at him!”  Even from a distance, she can see the sling, how… unwell Ed appears.  “He’s under guard!  And His Majesty Hohenheim would _never_ do those things he said!  Nor would Prince Edris ever claim that he had!”

She can see her words gaining traction among some, but others still look uncertain, and still more remain angry—roughly a three way split, she thinks wildly.  It’s time to use her heritage to her advantage.

“Amestris has _invaded_ again, and they’re using him as a cover to—“

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing!”

An arrow whizzes through the air, striking dangerously close to Winry’s head.  She screams and ducks, then realizes—she should probably make herself less of a target.

As more turn to realize what had happened, as the people who had seen the arrow shatter on the head of the statue begin to scream as well, Winry scrambles down the side.

“Stop her!  Grab her!”

But she is already running, away from the ominous forms in blue, dashing out through the palace gates.  And though it’s nothing in comparison to what Ed has done, she knows she’s left quite a stir behind her.

She only hopes it was for the better.

—

Winry hears about the wedding when it is announced, ostensibly with joy, and it breaks her heart to think of Ed, trapped, probably terrified, though he’d never admit it, the idiot.  And he’s probably blaming himself, too.  Pushing himself to protect Al—who has to be all right, she tells herself, refusing to accept any alternative.  It’s the best way to control Ed, after all; hurting Al would destroy that control.

Of course, then she shudders, thinking about Ed being controlled at all.

Life tries to return to normal, and she tries to let it.  She sees the hints of what happen to those who don’t: the shattered remains of a merchant’s stall, the proprietor nowhere in sight.  An empty house, broken door swinging on one hinge, now bereft of its inhabitants who had been a little too vocal in their displeasure of Xerxes’ new political situation.  Overheard whispers of displeasure at a new tax on a certain family’s specialty good, or perhaps a sudden increase in the number of their karavan attacks as they travel through the desert.

Automail and machinery receive no such tax; the Rockbells’ karavans arrive at their destinations unmolested.  The same good fortune appears to befall other families with Amestrian blood.

After a time, Pinako and Winry begin to offer their own karavans as a method of transport for those worse affected individuals, all older Xerxesian families who had flourished under Hohenheim’s rule.

This does some to abate the mistrust of the Rockbells that is growing amongst other merchant families, those without Amestrian heritage, but as the subtle injustices increase, so do the suspicious—and frightened—glances.  Fewer go out of their way to do business with them: after a couple of “quiet” incidents that everyone seems to know about anyway, no one wants to be suspected of “cheating” Amestrian-blooded merchant families.

Not that the Rockbells would ever make such an accusation, especially not to what is effectively their new government, and their fellow merchants know this.  But that guarantees nothing.  Even being suspected of coming out _too_ well in a deal can be grounds for an “investigation,” and merchant families are canny.  They learn quickly, and before two weeks are up, the new dynamic is quietly understood.  It’s ironic, as still no one truly knows what in the world is going on in the palace, what it is that caused all of this, but without the ability to find out, all they can do is control what they are able.

Winry wants to strangle each and every person involved in creating it.

Her only solace comes to her on the second day, when she receives a letter, slipped under her door and written in the code she and Almas had invented when they played together years ago.

_I don’t know what you’ve heard, but we’re alive, if just barely…_

She cries as she reads it, part relief, part sorrow.  She can only imagine what they’re going through, but doesn’t have to imagine what people are saying.  She hears it, murmured when people think the “Amestrians” can’t hear.

She shares it with Pinako, and they cry together.

—

The next pertinent letter they receive is addressed to Pinako, and it isn’t nearly so pleasant.  Winry can see it in her eyes when she arrives home from seeing one of their karavans, and Pinako hands it to her wordlessly.

Winry recognizes the royal seal of the king, and her first thought is, _Ed.  Oh god, something’s happened to Ed._

But then she begins to read.

_To the esteemed Rockbell family,_

_It has come to our attention that your family’s service to the crown and country of Xerxes has been exemplary, and that you have not been rewarded for such service is an insult that we can only hope will be forgiven.  This is an oversight that has historically affected many merchant families of Amestrian heritage, and something that must be rectified immediately in order to uphold the throne’s honor._

_To show our appreciation for your loyalty, we wish to extend to you an offer of nobility, equal to the Amestrian rank of count.  You will be awarded the title of Khorous and all associated lands and privileges upon the completion of a public ceremony in which your family swears fealty to the rulers of Xerxes and Amestris to accept this immense honor.  In return, we offer you our full support and protection in all of your endeavors._

_Please respond posthaste; as your rulers, we eagerly await your affirmative response._

_With the Sincerest of Best Wishes,_

_Their Majesties Edward Hohenheim and King Bradley_


End file.
